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THIS BOOK IS NOT RETURNABLE 
OR SUBJECT TO EXCHANGE 

BRENTANO'S 

Dictionaries. ScHOor. and College Text Books, 
Cable Codes, Plays, Fashion Papers, Guide Books, 
Auto Maps, Maps, Cook Books or Books of Refer- 
ence OF ANY Character cannot be returned and 

WILL NOT BE EXCHANGED. 



THE MOTHER 



BY THE SAME 
AUTHOR 

THE SECKET WOMAN 

THE SHADOW 

DOWN DAETMOOE WAY 

CURTAIN RAISERS 

A BREEZY MORNING 

ETC. ETC. 



THE MOTHER 

A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 



BY 

EDEN PHILLPOTTS 



" Thy J/ot/iei- u like a Vine in thy Blood " 



NEW YORK 

J3RENTANOS 

1911' 






Printed iu Great Britain 
By Ballantyiif J^' Co. Ltd, Lcndrn 



X/4/^^ 



CHARACTERS 

Ives Pomeroy, son of Avisa Pomeroy. Aged 25. 
Matthew Northmore, of Stone Parh Farm. Aged 45. 
Arthur Brown, a schoolmaster. Aged 30. 
Nathan Cawker, hwwn to the world as ^'Moleskin." 

Aged 60. 
George Bonus ]f^j,,^^,,, ,,, sto^ie Park ' 
Samuel Wickett J 

Emmanuel Codd, potman at the *' Green Man.'' Aged 70. 
Nicholas Toop, a policeman. Aged 28. 
Inspector Forrest. 
Two Constables. 
Butcher's Boy. 
Avisa Pomeroy, mistress of the ^^ Green Man'* puhUc- 

house, -^ged 45. 
Lizzie Pomeroy, her daughter. Aged 22. 
PiUTll Rendle, barmaid at the ** Green Man.'* Aged 24. 
Jill WlCKV:TT,ivife of Samuel Wickdt, Aged 25. 



CAST OF THE FIKST PERFOEMANCE OF 



THE MOTHER 

AT THE REPERTORY THEATRE, LIVERPOOL, 

OCTOBER 22, 1913 

Produced by Lawrence Hanray 



Ives Pomeroy . 
Matthew Northmoee 
Arthur Brown 
Nathan Cawker 
George Bonus 
Samuel Wickett 
Emmanuel Codd 
Nicholas Toop 
Inspector Forrest 
A Butcher's Boy 

AvisA Pomeroy 
Lizzie Pomeroy 
Ruth Rendle . 
Jill Wickett . 



F. Pennington- Gush 
Lawrence Hanray 
Algernon Greig 
Wilfred E. Shine 
George Dewhurst 
J. A. Dodd 
Howard Cochran 
Cecil Rose 
Lawrence Anderson 
Leonard Clarke 

Gertrude Sterroll 
Eileen Thorndike 
Dorothy Thomas 
Kathleen FitzSimons 



ACT 1 

Scene : The dwelling-room of the Pomeroys at " The 
Green Man '' Inn. A low-ceiled room of good size. 
At the hack a door, with glass panes in it, which are 
covered vnth a red curtain^ opens into the bar, and 
a roll-top desk stands heside it ; to the left is the fire- 
place, with a large easy chair on each side of it. To 
the right a wooden stair ascends from the room, 
and beneath it is a door, which leads to a cellar. 
This door is papered over like the walls of the 
room. The furniture is itpholstered in horsehair 
and has white antimacassars thrown over it. Upon 
the walls are a few colourxd prints from illustrated 
Christmas numbers, a large coloured portrait of 
Queen Victoria and so forth. Uj^on the ynanteU 
shelf are chimney ornaments. The second entrance 
to this room is to the left below the window, A 
table is spread for tea. 

[Arthur Brown, Lizzie Pomeroy and Rutu Rendle 

discovered at the tea-table about their meal. 

Brown. More watercress, Miss Rendle, i>lease. 
People don't eat enough watercress. No, Lizzie, your 

7 



8 THE MOTHER act i 

mother does not understand Ives. When you became 
my fiancee, I turned my attention to the subject and 
soon found it a very painful one. 

[Shakes his head and eats watercress, 

Lizzie. You're such a student of character, Arthur. 
Of course, all schoolmasters are. Dear Ives can't get 
over losing Jill Wickett. 

Ruth. He's a rare stickler for justice. 

Brown. The truth is that when the girl threw him 
over Ives lost all self-control, and went to the bad. 

Ruth. It was a mean thing ! Jill had promised to 
marry Lizzie's brother and then — — 

Brown. Took Samuel Wickett, at Mr. Northmore's 
farm. For his prospects, if I hear rightly. No more, 
Lizzie, thank you. You make the tea far too strong. 
It was a very improper match, because Samuel 
Wickett has a leg in the grave already, if you'll 
excuse the expression ; but he is his old uncle's heir 
and Jill will get two thousand pounds by this 
marriage some day. 

Ruth. Ives is well out of it, if she's that sort. 

Lizzie. So mother says. She was thankful when 
Jill gave him up. 

Ruth. But you couldn't expect Ives to be. 

Lizzie. Ives is so dark and secret nowadays, and 
always with that hateful Mr. Cawker — him what they 
call '' Moleskin." 

Brown. Grammar, Lizzie ! Yes, Cawker is a most 
irregular old man and no friend for youth. 

[Ruth rises and finishes her cwp of tea standing. 



ACT I THE MOTHER 9 

Brown. How does Mrs. Pomeroy find herself ? 

Lizzie. Pretty well, Arthur ; up and down, but 
she never tells us about her bad days till they're 
passed. 

Brown. I have advised her to consult 

[Unter Ives. Re accosts the women violently. 

Ives. Why the devil ain't one of you lazy girls in 
the bar ? Keeping mother there when she ought to 
be at her tea. 

Ruth. She's had her tea. I've only been ^ve 
minutes. 

Ives. [Meaningly.^ Northmore's riding down the 
hill. [Exit Ruth into the bar. 

How the deuce she can stand that fiddle-faced fool 
beats me. 

Brown. Mr. Northmore is no fool, Ives. 

Ives. It's his farm, of course. Everything in a 
petticoat is always thinking of Number One. 

Brown. Pull yourself together ! You're too old to 
behave like a child. 

Ives. Don't you lecture me, or I'll break your neck ! 
You bully the school-children and that silly girl. 

Brown. You won't make me angry. 

[Brushes the crumbs off his waistcoat. 

Lizzie. How dare you talk like that, Ives ? You 
ought to be ashamed ; and Arthur so patient with 
you! 

Ives. Go to hell, and take him too ! He's making 
you as hateful as himself. 

[Enter Emmanuel Codd with a bucket of peat. 



10 THE MOTHER act i 

Brown. This is most ungentlemanly, Ives. 

CoDD. [Very excited.] Hast heard tlie great news? 
Two men blown to ribbons at the granite quarry. 

Ives. And nobody better pleased than you, you 
adder. 

CoDD. Drunk again ! 

Ives. [To Codd.] Clear out, afore I kick you out I 
[CoDD scowls at Ives.] And don't look at me like that, 
you ugly old ape ! 

Codd. I don't want to look at you. 

Ites. Begone, then. 

CoDD. Aye, 111 go— and go for good. More 111 
not endure. I give notice. I 

Ives. No such luck. Youll hang on here [Exit 
CoDD with bucket] till you're rotten. 

Brown. This is very discreditable, Ives. 

Enter Aywa from the bar. 

Lizzie. Mother, EmmanueFs given notice again, 

AviSA. Has he ? Poor, old, cranky chap. 

Brown. My visit to Exeter is fixed for Tuesday, 
Mrs. Pomeroy. 

Ives. Then mind you buy Lizzie's tokening ring. 
'Tis about time she had it. 

AviSA. Hush, my dear ; Arthur's talking. 

Ives. Talking — what's the use of talking? His 
own stupid bleat's the only thing he cares to hear. 

[Flings himself down in the chair by fire. 

AvisA. Come, come, sonny ! 

Ives. I wish you wouldn't be so deadly calm, mother. 



ACT I THE MOTHER 11 

Lizzie. How can you, Ives ? Just because you're 
crossed. 

Ives. " Crossed '' ! " Crossed " ! When a man's life 
is scat to shivers ! " Crossed " ! Get out of my sight, 
you little fool, or I'll fling a knife at you. 

[A VISA sits down besides Ives and takes his 
hand. He flings her hand aside. She takes 
his hand again. He leaves it a moment. 

Ives. My blood's boiling ! 

AviSA. But don't let it boil over. Give him a cup 
of tea, Lizzie. 

Ives. Tea ! Hell fire — that's what I want to 
drink. Cuss the whole pack of you — hard-hearted, 
frozen creatures ! [^Starts up and goes out. 

AviSA. [Goes to her chair by the fire. 1 No sight of 
land for my Ives yet, bless his heart. 

Brown. The first thing is to break the natural 
instincts, which are always evil. We begin at the 
wrong end, Mrs. Pomeroy. 

AviSA. The fault of the age, my dear. They began 
at the other end — with a birch — in ray young days. 

Brown. No, no ! Corporal punishment is quite 
exploded. 

AviSA. So his father thought — worse luck for Ives. 
The world's growing a soft place sure enough. I hope 
it won't grow silly soft. 

Lizzie. Ives has been drinking. 

AviSA. Dear, stupid fellow. When I was a maid, 
such things happed to me, Lizzie, that I'd have got 
drunk too, sometimes — if I'd dared. [Laughing gently. 



12 THE MOTHER act i 

Lizzie. Mother ! 

AviSA. If he'd known me when I was a girl, 
Arthur here would have thought I wasn't a good 
companion for you. 

Brown. You surprise me, Mrs, Pomeroy. 

AviSA. [Her face twinkling.^ A very headstrong, 
selfish maiden w^as I ; and 'tis lucky I don't forget 
it. 

Lizzie. It's that hateful Jill. If Ives could only 
put her out of his mind and think of some other 
girl. 

Brov^'N. It might save him. We know that the 
love of a really good woman 

Lizzie. Ruth Rendle likes him, you can see she 
does. 

AviSA. Ruth is all I'd wish her ; but if you want 
truth, my pretty, she's a long way too good for our 
Ives. He's not wife-old for all his years. 

Lizzie. He says that Ruth's a frosty old maid. 

AviSA. Xot her ! We're only old maids when the 
wrong man comes along. Erost in the morning — 
fire at night. Ives loves the showy girls — like a bird 
chooses a cherry. 

[A knock at the door. Lizzie ansicers it and 
admits Mr. Cawkee. He carries a gun 
and an old game-bag slung over his 
shouldei\ 

Cawker. Be that master-piece, your mother, home, 
Miss Lizzie ? [Comes in, 

Browx. Well, I must take my leave. I return 



ACT I THE MOTHER 13 

from Exeter on Wednesday, by the 7.32, which 
reaches Tavistock at 8.51. 

[Shakes hands vnth Mrs. Pomeroy. Lizzie 
goes out with him, 

AviSA. I want to see you. Moleskin. I'm a lot put 
about by a thing I heard in the bar five minutes 
agone. 

Cawker. How's your heart ? 

AvisA. It have to beat a brave while yet, please God. 

Cawker. IVe brought 'e a pair o' golden plover for 
your own eating. [Takes birds from his bag.] And I 
must see Ives. He was in my company a bit not 
long ago — reckless like and up for justice and down 
on all tyrants. 

AvisA. What has he done ? 

Cawker. [Shrugging his shoulders.] God forgive 
me ; we all know I'm like the moon and only shine 
by night ; but Ives — 

A'nter Lizzie. 

AviSA. Run after your brother, Lizzie. Moleskin 
wants to see him. 

[Lizzie takes her sunbonnet from a nail 
behind the door and goes out. 

Cawker. Just the manhood in him crying out for 
justice ; and if you can get your justice and your 
pleasure togetlier — why, so much the better. You 
know me. I'm the same as tiie hawks and weasels. 
Life for mo is death for something else. A gun's my 
only tool. My nature droops if 1 see a spade or a 



14 THE MOTHER act i 

pick-axe. There's nought so badly paid as honest 
work, and I don't like it ; it don't suit me, and I 
won't touch it. 

AviSA. Always a choice with you between doing 
wrong and doing nothing. 

Cawker. Any fool can work ; it takes a man to play. 
I'll work my fingers to the bone — to escape work. 
Life's not a lesson — 'tis a game, Avisa Pomeroy. 

AviSA. A game of skill then, not a game of chance. 

Cawker. Ah, my dear, that all depends on what 
cards God Almighty deals out to 'e. If I'd got 
Squire Masterman's lot, I'd be a fine old English 
gentleman and a master of hounds, and the pride of 
ten parishes and the saviour of the poor. Any man 
could play that hand. But I've only got Nathan 
Cawker's cards, and so I'm a baggering old poacher 
and the shame of the country side. But I play my 
lot for all they're worth. 

Avisa. For more than they're worth I reckon — and 
that's cheating. "What's my boy been up to ? 

Oawker. Trying to open the eyes of a rich man. 

Avisa. Ives must learn a bit himself afore he can 
teach. 

Cawker. But I wouldn't have sorrow his school- 
master. 

Avisa. Not if happiness will do it. None that 
loves justice like him will go far wrong in the end. 

Cawker. [Shaking his head,] Justice be a funny 
shaped article — especially the justice of a justice of 
the peace. And 'tis so terrible difficult to get other 



ACT I THE MOTHER 16 

people to see your point of view. There was my father 
— lost his leg in a man-trap he did. And never saw the 
justice of it to his dying day. But your boy — terrible 
high-minded I'm sure — and a church-goer too. 

AviLA. Aye. He goes to please me — and look at 

the girls. [She laughs. 

Enter Ives. 

Cawker. Ah, here's the brave boy ! 

Ives. [To Avisa.] Let Codd pluck them birds. 
Don't you do it. 'Twill weary you. 

Avisa. Moleskin wants you, and be full of 
mysteries. [Exit Avisa. 

Cawker. Here's the devil to pay. They pheasants 
of that hard-hearted creature. Square Masterman. 

Ives. I don't care how hard he's hit. 

Cawker. I know. More do I, But he's going 
to hit back. 'Tis found out that you was there, and 
he knows it, and he's told the police to go ahead. 

Ives. What about you ? 

Cawker. Well — they suspect me — they always do 
suspect me at these times ; but somehow they can't 
prove nothing — as usual. I was ill just then and kept 
my bed, and my daughter can swear an alibi. But you'll 
have to cut and run, I reckon, till the trouble's over. 

Ives. Was it the poulterer at Tavistock gave me 
away? 

Cawker. He's in the cart too. The warrant's out. 
They'll come any minute. 

Ives. I'll stand to it. 

Cawker. Don't you be a fool. 'Tis no good talking 



16 THE MOTHER act i 

free trade to the justices — nor yet socialism neither. 
I know 'em. You run away, my son — then you'll live 
to fight another day, 

[The door into the har opens and Matthew 
NoRTHMORE enters. 

NoRTHMORE. Excuse me, Ives Pomeroy ; but Miss 
Rendle knew that Cawker was in here, and I want to 
speak to him. 

[Ives and Cawker regard Northmore with- 
out finendliness, 

Northmore. [To Cawker.] It's this. I won't 
have you at Stone Park. I've warned you thrice. 
Don't trespass on my ground, or on my side of the 
river again, or I'll take the law into my own hands. 

Cawker. Now hearken to that ! A right down 
Tory is Matthew Northmore ; and for why ? For the 
silliest, tom-fool reason in the world. Because his 
father was one afore him ! 

Ives. Narrow as the grave, you be, and cold as 
charity. 

Northmore. [To Ives.] You're young — too young 
to take good advice. But there's one thing will pay 
you, and that's to mind your own business. Experi- 
ence is a hard master, and so you'll find it. 

Cawker. And what d'you think I was going to do, 
farmer ? I was coming up to Stone Park this very 
night to offer to trap your rabbits — all free, gratis 
and for friendship. Trotting home in the dawn a bit 
ago, I see the varmints in your grass by the thousand. 
** Poor man," I thought, ** I must help him. There 



ACT I THE MOTHER 17 

he is in his bed, sleeping like an innocent babe 
and " 

NoRTHMORE. Liar! There's not a rabbit in my 
ground and you know it. 

Cawker. Then no doubt they was monkeys — or 
perhaps kangaroos. 

Ives. You go back to Euth and mend your 
manners. 

NoRTHMORE. Who are you to call her ** Ruth "? 

Ives. Don't you teach me how to treat the girls — 
a damned old bachelor like you. 

Cawker. Women be a noble branch of larning, 
farmer, but you've begun too late : you'll always be 
a dunce at 'em. Now I've loved 'em from the time I 
was fifteen. 

Enter A vis A. 

This wonder of women will bear me out. I kissed 
her afore she was five and off'ered to marry her when 
she was ten. 

Ives. Come here, Moleskin. What's best to do? 

[^Exeunt Moleskin and Ives. 

NoRTiiMORE. I'm sorry for your boy. He's going 
to the dogs, Mrs. Pomeroy. 

AviSA. Very good company the dogs can be, 
Matthew. 

NoRTHMORE. They're honest and that's more than 
he is. 

AviSA. Don't you say that, for I won't hear it, 
His father's son — fjiuUs enough, but honest and juat. 

B 



18 THE MOTHER 



ACT 1 



NoRTHMORE. I'm not the man's keeper and T can't 
be his friend, for he won't let me. He's lazy most 
times ; but he's been working a bit too hard for once — 
among Masterman's game birds. 

Avis A. Ives ! You can believe that ? 

NoRTHMORE. I heard it from Inspector Forrest 
himself. 

AvisA. Poaching ! 'Tis false. He'd never sink to it. 

NoRTHMORE. His left-handed justice. He's savage 
still over Wickett^s wife and wanted somebody to 
smart. He needs a sharp lesson. Fourteen days 
hard he's earned — maybe more. I'm terrible sorry 
for you. 

AviSA. It can't be — it can't be, Matthew. He 
couldn't do that, [A visa is much moved. 

NoRTHMORE. I hope you're right. He'll have every 
chance to clear himself, 

E7iter Ruth fiom the har, 

Ruth, Here's Mr. Westlake about the cider barrels, 
Mrs. Pomeroy. 

AviSA. [Pulling herself together.] I'll speak to him . 

Ruth. The bar's empty. 

AviSA. Think twice afore you let yourself believe 
this, Matthew. \_Exit AvisA into bar. 

NoRTHMORE. I've hurt her — and cruel sorry to do it. 

Ruth. About her son ? He means so well. 

NoRTHMORB. He's a rogue — and she'll live to know 
it. Leave him. You'll read the story-book I brought 
you, Miss Rendle ? 'Tis a good tale. 



ACT I THE MOTHER 19 

Ruth. Thank you very much, Mr. Northmore, 
Yes, I'll be sure to read it. 

Northmore. And you'll come for a walk o' Sunday ? 
Ruth. 'Tis most kind I'm sure. 
Northmore. I do greatly look forward to it. A 
promise, remember. Good-bye, and thank you for 
reading the book. 

[He shakes hands and looks at her with love* 

He holds her hand and she drops her eyes^ 

from his ardent face. He goes out and she 

shuts the door^ which he leaves open. Then 

she goes off to the bar. After a few moments 

Ives returns alone. He is excited. He 

takes a hunch of keys off a nail, goes to the 

big rolUtop desk and opens it. He takes 

out a cash-box and is putting some money 

into his pocket ivhen his mother returns 

from the bar. 

AviSA. Who's wanting that, sonny ? 

Ives. I am, mother. There's a bit of trouble 

coming, and I'd meant to stand up to it and say what 

I'd don© it for, but 'twill be bettor not. They're after 

me for some of that blasted Masterman's pheasants. 

[He puts money in his pocket. 
AviSA. Well, you can face a lie. 
Ives. 'Tisn't a lie. I shot 'em — for justice. Mas- 
terman's a slave-driver. He grinds the face of the 
poor He turned off my friend, Amos Coaker, for no 
fault. [Laughing.] Moleskin took the money — the sly 
dog. iiut he's sale. l^htiy viiut touch him. 



20 THE MOTHER act i 

AviSA. [A'/igry.] How have jou the heart — ? You 
laugh — you ought to groan. Ives Pomeroy I I'd 
never have thought it — or dreamed it ! 

Ives. More fool you. I'm up against all tyrants, 
and so be all my side ; and I'll strike where I please, 
and how I please, and as hard as I please. 

AviSA.' Do two wrongs make a right ? Tis wild 
trash you be talking. 

Ives. The rich shan't rob the poor for ever ! 

AvisA. [Sfernli/,] Be silent and hear me. That a 
son of mine should be rash and venturesome is 
natural ; but no son of mine has the right to be a 
fool. To shoot a man's orame 



o"^ 



Iyes. You've laughed at my pranks before. 

AviSA. You've never stolen your neighbours' goods 
afore. You've never dirtied your father's name 
afore. 

Ives. All right, then ; I won't trouble you with 
my affairs, mother. I hate money, and I hate the 
rich, and I hate vou for sidinof with them. 'Tis 
mean cowardice to support the^selfish wretches. I'll 
run at your apron-strings no more, if you're that 
sort. 

AviSA. [Sorroicfully and. sloicli/.] Then let life 
teach you your first hard lesson, Ives Pomeroy. And 
I'll bear it and bend to it for my love. 

Ives. Let Hfe teach me the strong want to help 
the weak. And I'll bend to it too. But they don't 
and never did. Wait till the weak all ^bink alike, 
and then they'll be weak no more. 



ACT I THE MOTHER 21 

Enter Lizzie. 

Lizzie. Here's Mr. Forrest and three policemen 
coming through the meadow gate ! 

Ives. Ha-ha ! They'll bolt their coney — ^they won't 
catch him. [Goes to door under the stairs.'] I'll slip 
in the cellar, and you nip round and unlock the 
grating afore they come, Lizzie. Hold 'em five 
minutes, mother, and I'm safe. [Opens door and 
descends cellar steps. Then jumps up again.] Come 
to the iEunter's Cross with a bit of food after mid- 
night, Lizzie. I'll wait there till I see you, and then 
away. Tell Forrest I'm not at home, mother. 

[Goes down cellar steps, shuts the door behind, 
him and prepares to haste away. 

AvisA. Bide where you be, Lizzie ! 

Lizzie. But mother 

AviSA. Bide where you be. The darkest day that 
has ever dawned for us, my pretty. 

Lizzie. Oh mother, save him ! 

AviSA. Please God, I will ! 

Enter Inspector Forrest, Nicholas Toop, 
and two other Constables. 

Avisa. [Gripping her hands together and speaki7ig 
to herself, but aloud.] Lord have mercy on my son ! 
Lord have mercy on my son ! [She controls herself 
and turns to Forrest.] Good evening, Mr. Inspector. 

Forrest. Good evening, ma'am. I'm proper sorry 
for this. 'Tis your boy. Here's the warrant. Us 
all hope he'll clear himself. But it looks terrible 



22 THE MOTHER act i 

like as if ho had a hand in that pheasant shooting at 
Squire Masterman's. 

Avis A. He had. He's told me. I'd have believed 
nobody but himself. He's here. 

[Goes to cellar stain's and opens the door. 

Toop. A cruel thing for you, ma'am. 

AviSA. Love's a hard taskmaster, Nicholas Toop. 

Forrest. [At top of stairs.] Ives Pomeroy, I've got 
to arrest you for shooting of pheasants on the night 
of the third of November at Tudor Manor. For the 
present you'd best to say nought. Come quiet, like 
a man. My trap's outside. [Takes handcuffs from 
one of the policemen. There is a pause.] Stand by 
the door, Nicholas. You men go down. 

[Toop stands by the door. The other two 
Policemen descend into the cellar. No one 
speaks. There are muffled voices below. 
Then Ives ascends and enters. Behind 
him come the Policemen. 

Forrest. You're wise not to 

Ives. [In a rage to his mother,] God damn you 
evermore for this, you traitor to your own son ! 
And never again, so long as I live, shall my head 
come under your roof. And never will I call you 
*^ mother" more! [Holding out his hands.] Put 'em 
on ! I'd sooner rot in clink till Doom than bide 
along with her. [They handcuff him. 

Forrest. Come on, my lad. The dusk is down 
and none will see you. 



ACT I THE MOTHER 28 

Ives. [To his motherc] And if I go to hell, 'tis you 
have driven me there, you heartless devil ! 

[He goes off between the two Policemen. 

Forrest and Nicholas follow, Avisa 

exhibits physical pain and puts her hand 

to her bosom, 

Lizzie. [Weeping.^ Mother, mother I He'll darken 

our doors no more. 

Avisa. [Putting her arms round Lizzie.] Darken 
our doors he can't, my pretty. Better than sunshine 
always. 

Lizzie. [Sobbing,"] He'll be the death of you ! 
Avisa. [Takes her handkerchief and wipes Lizzie's 
eyes,] Nay, nay ; I'll be the life of him ! 



CURTAIN 



ACT II 

Scene : The bar of " The Green Man " public-house. 
The counter of the bar runs parallel with front of 
stage. To the left is a windoto and a door, to the 
right an open fireplace vnth a high settle at right 
angles to it, facing the proscenium. The floor is 
sanded. The usual paraphernalia of beer engine^ 
bottles, water bottles, glasses, mugs, matches and 
ash-trays distinguishes the counter. There is a 
flap on the left side, which is thrown up and admits 
of access from the bar to the counter and to a door 
which opens from behind the counter. This is the 
door which communicates with the private parlour 
of the Pomeroys, It is of glass^ covered with a red 
curtain. On the high dresser which runs behind 
the bar are rows of bright bottles, red and green 
vnnC'glasses, etc. Three barrels stand on trestles 
beneath them, and above these is a smaller barrel 
containing spirits. Various advertisements of 
brewers and wine merchants, and the bill of a 
sale of stock are hung about the bar, A few old 
sporting prints decorate the wall above the chimney 
shelf The masks of a fox or two also hang upon 
25 



26 THE MOTHER act ii 

the walls. An oil lamp hangs over the bar, and 
there is another' smaller lamp on the mantelshelf. 
The time is evening, 

[Ruth Rendle and Matthew Northmore discovered. 
She stands behind the bar. Re bends over towards 
her, 

Ruth. Have you heard any more of Ives Pomeroy ? 

Northmore. No. 'Twas a light sentence. The 
Justices knew a bit about his family, and Masterman 
didn^t press it against him. Since he came out he's 
been stopping with that old blackguard Cawker, the 
man he's got to thank for his trouble. 

Ruth. But Moleskin would do anything for Mrs. 
Pomeroy. He's awful sorry. He's at Ives day and 
night to come home again. His mother's hopeful that 
it 11 soon happen. Each night she makes all ready 
for him. 

Northmore. There's more going on than she knows. 
And whose got the heart to tell her? There was 
great talk whether she did right or wrong to give him 
up. For my part she did very right. A lesson he 
wanted, as I told her, and a lesson he got ; though it 
seems he won't learn it. 

Ruth. No son of that woman could be very bad, 
Matthew, 

Northmore. He's bad all through, and the sooner 
you know it, Ruth, the better for your piece of mind. 
He's after my dairymaid again. 

Ruth, Jill ! But she's married. 



ACT II THE MOTHER 27 

NoRTHMORE. That doD t stop him. When she took 
Sam Wickett I was sorry for it. For one thing, poor 
Sammy's a dying man ; for another, she's a worthless 
baggage, and only wanted his uncle's money. A 
proper liar, too. She's a good dairymaid, and that's 
all you can say for her ; but she must be a bit of a 
fool, for if she goes wrong she'll lo«e what she married 
for. 

Ruth. She's a lovely woman. 

NoRTHMORE. Be there more than one lorely woman 
in the world ? 

[He looks at her and tries to catch hsr hand, 

Ruth. [Sighing.'] If only you knew how your eyes 
make my heart ache, Matthew. I'm a stupid girl and 
full of trouble. I shall never make any man happy. 

NoRTHMORE. Then let a man make you happy. By 
God ! I'd roam the wide world and fight the wide 
world to find happiness for you, Ruth. 

Ruth. We must win our own happiness. 

NoRTHMORE. Love came late to me, but now 'tis a 
raging fire. Love's bitter quick to see and feel, 
without eyes or fingers. I know more about you 
than )^ou know yourself. Everything I know — 
everything. There's but one living creature between 
you and me, and his name is Ives Pomeroy. There ! 
'Tis out — more shame on me ; but you've made me 
dead to shame. I'd face the scorn of the whole world 
now for your sake. 

Ruth. He's nothing to me, and you know it. 

Northmore. No, he's nothing to you, because he's 



28 THE MOTHER act ii 

a blind and wilful fool. But he might be something 
— he might be everything. 

Ruth. How dare you say that ? 

NoRTHMORE. Because I'm mad, now and then, along 
with you ; and the mad tell truth. I like to hurt you ; 
I like to see the blood come and go in your cheeks. 
But what's your pain to mine ? To think he might 
have you, and he's running after that trash, Sam 
Wickett's wife ! 

Ruth. You're a coward to say these things. 

Enter Arthur Brown and Lizzie Pomeroy. 

Brown. Ah, neighbour Northmore, a fine evening. 

Lizzie. [To Ruth.] The moon's that lovely down in 
the woods, Ruth, I wish you could see it. Arthur 
has been telling me how far ofi' it is and exactly what 
it weighs. 

Brown. A bottle of lemonade, Miss Rendle, please. 
And pour it into two glasses. [Takes out his purse, and 
speaks to Northmore.] I haven't signed anything you 
know — too liberal-minded for that I hope. But if 
you consider the teetotal movement in all its bearings, 
you must approve. So I am consistent and practise 
what I preach. 

NoRTHMORE. 'Tis hard to be consistent. 

Brown. Not to me ; I never feel in the least 
tempted to change my opinions, when once they are 
formed. 

[Ruth has opened a bottle of lemonade and 
poured it into two glasses. Brown gives 



ACT II THE MOTHER 29 

Ruth threepence. Lizzie drinks her 
lemonade. Brown sips his. 

NoRTHMORE. I must be gone. 

Lizzie. We've seen Ives. He's hovering round 
like a homing pigeon, so mother says. 

NoRTHMORE. Hovering like a hawk, more like. 
Good night. Forgive me. [To Ruth.] 'Twas only 
truth I told. [Shakes her hand.] Good night. 

[J^^ods to Lizzie a^id Brown. 
[Uxit Matthew Northmore. 

Lizzie, Oh, Ruth, at Lane End we saw him. I 
spoke, but he didn't answer ; and Arthur told him 
that he wished to hold out the hand of friendship 
and let the dead past bury the past; but Ives just 
slipped by us and took no notice. 

Brown. He really ought to bend to the rod. It's 
very unsatisfactory. He doesn't consider how such 
rash behaviour affects the community. Many men in 
my position. Miss Ruth, would think twice before 
contracting an alliance with such a man ! 

Lizzie. Arthur ! 

Ruth. I'm afraid he'd break every bone in your 
body, Mr Brown, if you threw Lizzie over. 

Brown. I throw her over ! Am I the sort of man 
who could throw the woman of my choice over, Miss 
Ruth ? Oh, no — quite the contrary I assure you. 
I'm merely saying what some men might do. 

A' /iter Jill Wickeit. 



80 THE MOTHER act ti 

JjLL, Good evening. Be my husband here ? 

Ruth. No, Jill. 

Jill. 'Tis time he was home. He's been to 
Tavistock along with George Bonus to sell sheep, and 
he's sure to come in here on his way back to Stone 
Park. 

Lizzie. I hope he's better, Jill ? 

Jill. He'll never be no better, poor chap. 

Brown. It should be your privilege to brighten his 
declining days, Mrs. Wickett. 

Jill, I've done what I could, schoolmaster. He 
wants a nurse not a wife. 

Brown. There is no nurse like a good wife, my 
poor woman. 

Enter Ayisa from behind the bar, 

AviSA. Get to bed, you girls. 'Tis time you was 
off. I'll take the bar till Codd comes home. 

Lizzie. Oh, mother, we saw Ives at Lane End. 

Brown. I saluted him with friendship ; but he 

[Shakes his head and looks at his watch,] Good 
gracious ! Ten o'clock. What am I thinking about ! 

AviSA. Good night, Arthur. Be off, Lizzie ; and 
you too, Ruth. 

Brown. [To Lizzie.] Good night, dear one. 
[Baises his hat.] Good night, ladies. [Uxit Brown, 

Ruth. Let me stop till Codd comes back. 

AviSA. No, I'm very well to-night — very happy 
too. [To Ruth.] He's near — I know it — I feel it 
somehow. 



ACT II THE MOTHER 

Lizzie. [Goes behind the bar and kisses her mother.] 
Good night, mother. He won't hold off much longer. 
He can't. 

[Goes off behind bar. Jill moves to window 
of room and lifts blinds and looks out. 

Ruth. Let me stop ? 

Jill. Best to go, Miss. I want a word with Mrs. 
Pomeroy. 

AviSA. You go, Ruth. 

Ruth. Good-night, then. Don't be standing — 'tis 
bad for you. Sit in your chair. \^Exit Ruth. 

AviSA. What's the matter with you, Jill ? 

Jill. Be you bearing malice against me still ? 

AviSA. Not I. And never did. No need to go 
back to that. You flung over my boy and I was glad 
of it. 

Jill. I did wrong, and I was punished, and my 
lot's a cruel hard one, I can tell you. But I'm here 
for your son's sake — not for my own. 

AviSA. What has he got to do with you now ? 

Jill. I'm only his messenger. I've seen him a 
bit of late. I've oomforted him, and he's comforted 
me for that matter. He was in sore need of a friend, 
and so was I. 

AviSA. Good powers, Jill Wickett, what are you 
talking about ? 

Jill. [Shritgying Iter shoidders.] He'll tell you. 
He's a rare wonder, and God knows why ever I gave 
him up. Nobody understands the man like you and 
me. A proper iiero he is. 



32 THE MOTHER act ii 

AviSA. This won't do ; and if you're playing about 
with him again 

Jill. 'Tis no use talking to me like that, Mrs. 
Pomeroy ; I'm only a girl, and a cruel unhappy girl, 
too. I've paid with a bucket of bitter tears for my 
mistake. He knows. Your son knows. But 'tis 
hard when you're so young as me to — But life's 
opened my eyes and showed me myself, and showed 
what your son be, too, for that matter. I'm a woman 
as feels, and I do to others as they do unto me, Mrs. 
Pomeroy. I'm built so. If I'm happy I want for the 
rest of the world to be happy ; but if I'm miserable I 
try my very best to make everybody else the same. 
And I be miserable now, and what girl wouldn't be — 
linked to a death's head ? You can't ask a fine crea- 
ture like me to ruin my life 

AviSA. Have done, Jill ! What wicked stuff is this 
you're talking ? 

Jill. He'll tell you. 'Tisn't wicked — 'tis nature^ 
'Twas a message from Ives that I brought. He's not 
fifty yards away at this moment ; and to-night, when 
the pub's shut up, he's coming home — coming to see 
you for a bit. 

AviSA. To-night? 

Jill. After closing. And I'll say this before he 
comes. He's a brave, good fellow, and I'm proud to 
call him my friend, and I'd lay down my life for him, 
and I don't care who knows it. 

Enter Codd. 



ACT II THE MOTHER 33 

AvLSA. [Aside to Jill.] I'll open the bar door to 
him when they've gone. 

Jill. He's very wishful to have you his side, ma'am, 
and so be I. He loves you something tremendous. 
He's forgiven everything and hopes you'll do the 
same. 

AvisA. [Putting her hand to her hreast.'] I felt it — 
I felt he was coming home to-night. 

Jill. [To Avisa.] He's terrible wishful to pleasure 
you ; and so be I — God knows. Good-night, ma'am. 
I'll tell him you'll be here. [To Codd.] If my Sammy 
comes in, you bid him hurry home, Mr. Codd. 'Tis 
time the poor chap was to bed. [Exit Jill. 

Codd. What be she doing here ? Like her cheek 
to come and see you — the cat. 
Avisa. A message from my son. 
Codd. Ah ! She carries his messages, do she ? 
Mark me, she'll be carrying something else of his 
afore long ! 

Avisa. [Concerned loith her oion thoughts.] My son 
be coming back again. 

Codd. Of course — who doubts it? 'Tis all talk and 
cussing and noise with him. Here's the only place 
in the world where he can have his victuals free, and 
waste his time, and do no work, and run about and 
play and let his mother pay for his fun. 

Avisa. Why be you such a bitter-weed, Ennnanuel ? 

[doitig. 
Codd. Ikcause I ban't built to forget, nor yet to 
forgive. 'Tis only born fools do either. 



34 THE MOTHER act ii 

[£xU Avis A through door at hack of bar, 
CoDD pours himself out a drink. 

Enter George Bonus and Samuel Wickett. 

CoDD. And he'll brew hell-broth for everybody again 
afore long — Ives Pomeroy — poisonous toad that he is. 
Boxus. Give us a drop of gin, Codd. Here's poor 
Sammy Wickett coughing his soul up. 

Wickett. As to Ives Pomeroy, my wife says that 
he's going to be quite a reformed character ; don't she, 
George ? 

Bonus. We'll hope so. 

CoDD. Your Jill says it ? [^Helping them to drink. 
Wickett. Yes, my dear wife have had a bit of talk 
along with him. He's forgiven her in a very Chris- 
tian spirit, so she tells me. She couldn't help loving 
me better'n him ; could she, George ? 

Bonus. Of course not. Love don't ax leave to come. 
CoDD. Nor yet to go again. Did you sell the 
sheep ? 

Wickett. We sold 'em. 'Twas a great adventure. 
They fetched three pound more than Mister North- 
more counted on — didn't they, George ? 
Bonus. So they did, Sammy. 

Wickett. [Laughing feebly.] And I've got the 
money in my pocket ; ain't I, George ? 

Bonus. I hope so. Drink up and we'll have one 
more for luck. 

Wickett. 'Tis wonnerf ul the prices master gets for 
his things. 



ACT II THE MOTHER 35 

CoDD. Lucky in life — unlucky in love, that man. 

Bonus. He's terrible gone after your Miss Rendle, 
without a doubt. 

WiCKETT. 'Twould be a very good thing if she was 
to take him ; wouldn't it, George ? 

CoDD. HeVe escaped 'em till now. What does he 
want to mess himself up with a female for ? 

WiCKETT. 'Twould be a godsend for Stone Park if 
he was to get such a fine, clever woman. 

[CoDD begins to wash dirty mugs and tumblers. 

CoDD. Your wife was in here a minute ago. She 
wants you home. 'Tis time you was to bed. 

WiCKETT. She's that thoughtful for me ! My 
cough keeps her awake six nights out of seven, but 
she never grumbles. A patient woman and good as 
gold. It shows she married me for myself, and not 
for my uncle's money ; don't it, George ? 

[CoDD Jills their glasses. 

Bonus. Certainly it do — a very good woman — as 
women go. 

WiCKETT. You see I've lost all hope of the money 
now. [Laughing.] Marriage be like mumps seemingly. 
'Tis catching. My old uncle's to be wedded, so 'tis 
good-bye to his cash. Quite a young woman he's took. 
A most amazing world, as I've often said ; haven't I, 
George ? 

Bonus. Do your wife know about it ? 

WiCKETT. I told her o' Thursday — broke it to her ; 
and then told my old mother ; and then I came in 
here and told Mrs. Pomeroy. And now I don't care 



36 THE MOTHER act ii 

who knows it. And my Jill took it that quiet and 
brave without a pinch o' fuss— like the rare girl she 
be. " I married you — not your money," she said to 
me, without turning a hair. I'm sure I don't know 
what I did to win such a wife. But when I'm well 
and strong again, I'll make it up to the woman. 

Enter Cawker, 

Cawker. Cheero, boys ! Did I hear the noble name 
of '' woman " in your mouth, Sammy ? 

WiCKETT. My wife 'twas. Moleskin. Of course, I 
wouldn't praise any other man's wife. Because that 
wouldn't be proper. 

[WiCKETT coughs, goes to the fire with his glass 
and sits on the settle, 
CoDD. Cuss all women — crooked, shifty wretches ! 
Cawker. 'Tis a wonder they haven't wrung your 
neck for you afore now, Codd. 

CoDD. Women be a devilish invention. You can 
break in their bodies — not their hearts. You've got 
to watch 'em as if you was a tiger-tamer. Take your 
eye off for a second and they'll pounce and tear your 
soul out. 

WiCKETT. That's going too far, Emmanuel. I*m 
sure no woman born would tear a man's soul out. 

[Codd helps Cawker to spirits from a special 
bottle which he takes from shelf and leaves 
on counter, 
Cawker. Ah ! You're one of the lucky ones, 
Sammy. 



ACT IT THE MOTHER 37 

WiCKETT. Sometimes I wonder how ever I got the 
pluck to offer for her. Till I was up home twenty 
year old, my eyes always watered when I passed a 
maiden. 

Cawker. Fancy that ! 'Twas my mouth always 
watered when I passed 'em. 

WiCKETT. I'd blush afore 'em something fearful. 

[Coughs. 

Bonus. Don't you talk ; you listen. 

Cawker. 'Tis the surprises in 'em that always drew 
me. Uncertain as sporting. A wonderful gamble 
they be — never so near as when they furthest off, and 
never so far off as when they be in your arms with 
their lips on your cheek. 

CoDD. Claws of Satan — every one of 'em ! 

Cawker. Have a drop along with me, you chaps. 
You can carry another, Sammy. You want uplifting. 
That cough shakes you like a leaf. Give him three 
fingers, Codd. 

WiCKETT. Be I up for another, George ? 

Bonus. Yes — for once in a way. 

Cawker. You must take more pride in yourself, 
Sammy. You're a very good man — so long as you've 
got a better to watch you. And when all's said you'll 
make so fine a meal for worms as the best among us. 

[Sla^ys him on the back, 

WiCKETT. I may or I may not, though 'tis very 
kind of you to praise me, Moleskin. 

[CoDD pours out more drink. 
Enter Nicholas Toop iu iiniform. 



38 THE MOTHER act it 

Cawker. Ah ! Here's policeman Toop, to tell us 
'tis closing time. We be all safe, thank the Lord, 
while he walks and watches. 

CoDD. [To Cawker.] You deep scoundrel ! A dis- 
grace to the police you be, and well may you laugh at 
'em. If they was worth their salt they'd have catched 
you red-handed twenty year ago. 

Cawker. [Laughs.] Do 'e hear this old fool, 
Nicholas ? 

CoDD. A disgrace, I say — like a plague they can't 
cure be a disgrace to the doctors. 

Cawker. Ha-ha ! Catch me first and cure me after- 
wards, as the haddock said. [Winks at the policeman. 

Toop. We'll take you yet, Moleskin, and I hope I 
may be the man to do it. 

Cawker. I hope you may, I'm sure I hope you 
may, Nicholas. 'Twill be a great feather in your cap, 
but 'tis very unlikely. For why ? I'm as honest as a 
bird on a bough. And so be you, han't you, Sammy? 
Just the sort of chaps — you and me — to go fox- 
hunting with a flock o' sheep ! 

WiCKETT. No, no, I won't neighbour along with 
you, Moleskin. I'm a very respectable young man, 
and always first to my bed of a night since I married, 
ban't I, George ? 

Cawker. [Tole7'antly.'\ There — there — you run 
home to your red wife, and tell her to put a mustard 
plaster on your poor chest. 

Bonus. 'Tis time we was away. Get going, Sammy, 
I'll be after you in a minute. 



ACT II THE MOTHER 39 

WiCKETT. So I will, theD, else my Jill will be 
worritting. Good-night, gentlemen all. 

Toop. [Looking after WiCKETT.] Poor soul. They'll 
soon put him to bed with a spade. 

Cawker. And what will Jill Wickett do then, fine 
thing ? 

Toop. Marry a man, I should think. 

CoDD. By name of Nicholas Toop, perhaps ? 

Toop. Might do better — might do worse. 

CoDD. After her a'ready, I daresay — and not the 
only one. She draws the men like treacle draws the 
flies. 

Cawker. [To Codd.] Dirty inside and dirty outside 
you be. Always quick to think evil. If you wasn't 
so old, I'd duck you in the goose pond, Emmanuel, 
and make you drink a pint o' tadpoles afore I let you 
out. 

[Ente7' Mrs. Pomeroy from behind bar. She 
has shawl over her shoulder's. 

Cawker. Ah ! Good evening, missis. You did 
ought to give this bald, old carrion-crow a pinch of 
your charity. 

Toop, I do hope you'm pretty clever, ma'am. 

[A VISA gives Toop a small glass of sloe gin, 

AviSA. [SmilesJl My heart be growing too old for 
my body, so they say, Nicholas. 

Cawkeu. Be growing to big for it, more like. 
Never was such a heart o' gold afore. 



40 THE MOTHER act ii 

CoDD. 'Tis her rambling, wicked son be pushing 
her downhilL 

Ayisa. [Giving Codd a drinJ: over the har.l Take 
your nightcap and be off to bed, Einmanueh 111 lock 
up to-night. 

Cawker. I'm working steady at Ives. He's mend- 
ing fast. I led him astray, God forgive me, so the 
least I can do is to bring him back to the fold again. 

Codd, Aye, like the wolf comes back. [Gets his] 
ami prepares to go,] JJsll live to see you strung up 
yet, I hope, Nathan Cawker ! [Exit Codd. 

Cawker. [To Avisa.] What a dear old man he is ! 
Your Ives is getting wiser and broader-minded every 
minute. Mark me, Avisa, he'll be home afore you 
expect him. I be at him to come home every hour. 
I give him no rest. 

Toop. There's nought like a bit of a shake up, same 
as he had. to steady a young youth. And no sensible 
man will think the worse of him once he shows himself 
good for something. TVell [drinking his sloe giji], 
closing time, souls. Good-night all. [Exit Toop. 

Cawker. I'm going trout-fishing to-morrow, thank 
the Lord I [Lights pipe and put^ matches in his pockety 
also sugar and a lemoji.] Good night, and get well 
quick, Avisa Pomeroy. Women like you be growing 
terrible scarce in the land. Come on, George. 

[Exeimt Cawker and Boxrs. 

[Avisa j^^'^ts out the swinging lamp ovei* the bar. 

Slie is tremidous. She goe^ to door and 

listens. Then she meiuls the fire and kneels 



ACT II THE MOTHER 41 

hy it, her senses alert. Ives Pomekoy 
cornes in. She hears him and rnses. 
Ives. Have you forgiven me, mother ? 

A VISA. [The acute emotion visible ivhen she was 
alone is hidden now. She is calm and collected before 
him She smiles,] My own dear son ! [Kisses him 
and holds his hand.] My boy ! Supper's in the oven 
for you. 

IvES. You wonder ! Nought can change you. Be 
the girls to bed ? I've got a lot to say. 

AviSA. They're both to bed. [Goes to lock the door. 

Ives. Nay ; I ban't come to stop to-night. There's 
a fine adventure afoot. 

AviSA. [Locks the door and smiles at him.] I've 
caught my chick now. I knew he'd hop back to his 
nest again, if 'twas only for the old bird's sake. 

Ives. Soon — soon I'll come ; but not to-night. A 
terrible big thing have got to be done to-night. How 
be you going on ? Be you strong enough to hear 
about it ? Did Jill call in a bit ago ? 

A VISA. [Sitting hy the fire.] She came. 

Ives. [Looking round.] I feel as if I'd been away 
ten year ! [Goes behind bar and gets a drink of ale.] 
Have a drop o' brandy afore I speak to 'e, mother ? 

AviSA. [Shakes her head.] Jill Wickett had some- 
thing on her mind seemingly. 

Ives. And well she might. And me too. And 
you — a wise woman like you — you'll soon see how 
'tis between us. I've larned such a lot of wisdom. 
I be growed from a boy to a man now, mothei'. 



42 THE MOTHER act ii 

'Twas knowledge hard got ; but it won't be wasted. 
I look back and laugh to think how wrong I was. 

AviSA. You'll see life clearer now, Ives. 

Ives. So I do then — so clear as the stars. I'm 
going to right a wrong, mother. 

AviSA. 'Tis a great thing to right wrongs. 

Ives. [Ooming over to her.] When Jill took Wickett, 
I said 'twas like a red squirrel mating with a white 
mouse. She was wicked to do it, and it couldn't 
come to no good. And more it did. She did evil 
and so did I ; and we both were punished for it. But 
I'm a strong man, thank God, though she's a weak 
woman. She ain't going to suffer no more. 'Tis 
done, mother. She'll be free afore sunrise ! 

AviSA. Free ! 

Ives. And you've got to swear, by the living God, 
to be our side. But I know you will be. Didn't 
you forgive Tom Bassett's wife for running away 
with the carpenter ? And didn't you say she was 
right to leave that drunken, worthless dog, her 
husband ? Jill's suffered — oh, she's suffered, I can 
tell you ! That Samuel ! Heaven's the only place 
for him. She hates him — hates his cough and his 
weakness and his silliness. Any decent woman 
would, for he's half a fool. But be one mistake to 
wreck a whole life ? ]^ot if I can help it. 'Tis all 
in a nutshell, mother. Jill shan't waste herself on 
that poor atomy of a man no more. She was meant 
for me, and only me. I've took my own money out 
of the bank — five-and-fifty pounds. She's being 



ACT II 



THE MOTHER 43 



tortured to death, and I won't endure it another 
hour ; and this very night we be going to cut and 
run together. 

AviSA. [Shuts her eyes and leans hack. Then she sits 
w^;, traces herself^ and takes a long breath.^ Well, the 
woman can't do no more than that for 'e. 

Ives. Ah ! We were wise to trust you ! 

[Pause. Then Avisa rises and puts her arm on 
Ives' shoulder, 

Avisa. Sit down here beside me and we'll talk 
about it. 

Ives. 'Tis this way : Wickett will divorce her, or 
else die — no odds which, for his thread be spun, poor 
wretch ; and then I marry her and come home again 
to you. And a mighty fine daughter-in-law she'll 
make. 

Avisa. You've thought it all out, I see. 

Ives. And mind this : she's loved me all along, 
mother. 'Twas only her people made her take that 
poor shadow for his uncle's money. She don't want it. 

Avisa. She don't want it, because she can't get it, 
Ives. 

Ives. What? 

Avisa. Leave that and say all you've got to say. 

Ives. You ain't going back on me, mother ? 

Avisa. Never, while my hands and wits can work 
for you. You've had sore troubled moments before 
you came to this. And now I must have some too. 
I'm a proud woman, Ives, to think you could come 
back to ine — while there was time. 



44 THE MOTHER act ii 

Ives. My mind's fixed. You'll never change it, 
mother. 

AviSA. But you can change it yourself. 

Ives. Don't you preach to me to-night — I ban't 
here for that. 

AviSA. I'll not preach. 'Tis a short and sharp 
business you've planned, my dear — a simple thing, 
but the simplest things often have a kink in them. 

Ives. [^Sitting hy her,] A man have got to show 
himself a man. Must Jill be denied all happiness 
for evermore because she's made a mistake ? She's 
young and wants her share of joy. And why not ? 
I be thinking for her, not myself. 

AviSA. [Futting her arm on his shoulder,] Think 
for her — that's right. Think deeper yet for her. 

Ives. She trusts me like my dog trusts me. And 
'tis all over now, anyway. She'll meet me at the 
Hunter's Cross a bit after midnight. My solemn 
oath she's got, and I wouldn't go back on it for any 
living soul. 

AviSA. She swore on oath too— in the holy house 
of her Maker. She's Wickett's wife — before men and 
God Almighty. 

Ives. Forced into it by her folk. 

AviSA. ^ot she ! She went her own way and 
always have and always will. For you to strike such 
a man as Wickett ! For my strong Ives to rob that 
poor creature ! 'Tis like taking away a dying child's 
toy. 

Ives. The woman shan't be tortured no more, I tell 



ACT II THE MOTHER 45 

you — not another day ! IVe gone too far to turn 
back now, and wouldn't if angels came between. 

AviSA. [JRising.] Turn back you must, for this is 
the turning-point. 

Ives. Never, mother. My word's given. 

AviSA. For her sake, Ives. 

Ives. For her sake I'd die sooner ! If you but 
knew what she is. 

AviSA. I know her better than you do, my son. 

Ives. 'Tis hell to hear one woman fight against 
another ; and I won't hear it. She's first with me 
now, and will be for evermore. [Starting up.] Have 
you forgot what 'twas to love, mother ? 

AviSA. [Gently.] Not I — else I'd not be here now, 
Ives. You shall put another first. 'Tis right to 
lift the sweetheart highest — 'tis nature. True lovers 
be like streams that run together to part no more. 
They give all, and ask all back. But a mother — 
'tis her pure joy to give all and ask for nothing. 
A mother be the bird's wing over her little ones — 
spread to keep 'em warm and safe till they need 
it no more. 

Ives. Jill only lives for me now. 

AviSA. [Strongly,] Live for her, then — for her right 
and her honour and her good name. Be just to her — 
you that love justice. Look back at what you've 
learned since last you was under your mother's roof, 
and list to what your own inner voice be telling you. 

Ives. She's mine by ail right and reason and always 
was. 



46 THE MOTHER act ii 

AviSA. Her husband's dying. 

Ives. What's his life to me? 'Tis her life I'm 
fighting for. 

AviSA. For my sake, put this away from you, Ives. 

Ives. You'll live to be glad I deny you, mother. 

AvisA. I've tried and failed then. I'd have lifted 
you to see the ugly truth if I could. I can't. I 
don't blame you for that ; I only blame myself* 

Ives. You'll live to be glad I won, I tell you. 

AviSA. 'Tis you would live to be sorry. You've 
not won, dear heart. You can't win that way. But 
I'll help you to win yet, I'd have beat you with 
right if I could \tahes his hand], but now 'tis with 
might that I must beat you. 

Ives. The might is mine. 

AviSA. The might is truth. Come close to me. 
I'm going to hurt my boy now. 

VES . [Sitting beside her,] You'll never hurt me no 
more, mother. I'll never quarrel with you no more. 

AviSA. When did Jill say she'd run away with 
you ? 

Ives. Last Thursday night. 

AviSA. But you'd asked her before ? 

Ives. A score o' times, and I ban't ashamed of it. 

AviSA. 'Twas on the morning of Thursday that 
Samuel Wickett heard his old uncle was going to wed 
again. 

Ives. Wed again ! 'Tis a lie ! 

AviSA. Ask Samuel. And that decided her — not 
your prayers. Jill's deeper far than you, and looks 



ACT II THE MOTHER 47 

further ahead. It hurts me to strike the woman 

behind her back, but 

Ives. She couldn't do nothing like that. [Fause.] 
Oh God, mother, how can you think so bad of her ? 
'Tis cruel of you ! 

AviSA. Cruel ? Not I. I mean nought but kind- 
ness. Hark to me, that never spoke a word to you 
without love. She's treated you evil ; and I say 
" return good for evil." Save her from herself, Ives. 
IvES. I won't believe she knew. 
Avis A. You must. She's a very witty girl — 
cautious — and far-sighted. 

Ives. There be none to fight her battles but me. 
AviSA. She can fight her own battles far cleverer 
than you can. Did she trust you ? Tell me that. 
Did you get so much as a kiss till Sam told her the 
money was gone ? One kiss, Ives ? Speak the truth 
to me. [Ives is much agitated.^ Wasn't it her that 
ofiered to run away ? I think it was. 

Ives. [Angry.] I'll go and strangle her 

AviSA. Don't you do that. Any fool could do 
that. The big way — your way — is to leave it once 
for all ; and she'll know bitter well why you have. 
'Tis right she should smart a bit for this. 'Twas a 
mean thought and far ways ofl' justice and plain 
dealing to slight you so and flout her poor man's 
honour. Let the night air cool her ; let the Hunter's 
Cross talk to her — and the moon and the stars. Let 
the light o' dawn creep to her presently — not you. 
'Twill show her the same sad, ugly things that I've 



48 THE MOTHER a( t ii 

been showing you. You be wise, and go to your bed 
and forgive her. Aye, let your strength forgive her 
weakness,, my son. Let her find that you wasn't the 
sort to be played with. Let her know what she's lost. 
Ives. \_Angry and ivalkmg about.] Blast her — 
cunning devil ! I see it now — a lot more than you 
can see. I'll never forgive her. She may freeze and 
rot for all I care. 

AviSA. Your room's waiting for you up over. 

[Points overheacL 

Ives. Not to help her from hell v>^ould I stir now. 

God judge me if I'll breathe the same air with her 

again. To think she could trick a man like me ! And 

I'd have given my life up for her ! 

[He goes out hehind bar. His mother collapses 
for a few moments. Then she takes the 
brandy bottle^ pours brandy into a glass, 
mixes it with ivater and drinks it. She 
listens awhile, looks upward and hears 
Ives trampling overhead in his room. She 
carries the light from the mantelshelf to the 
edge of the counter nearest the door. Then 
she unlocks and opens the door. She jmis 
her shawl over her head, extinguishes the 
lamp and goes out into the night, shutting 
the door behind her. Overhead there is 
still heard the trampling o/Ives. 

CURTAIN 



ACT III 

Scene : The bar of " The Green Man " as hefore. The 
stage is dark ; the time is dawn. Two months have 
passed since the events of the previous act. 

[Emmanuel Codd opens door at the hack of the bar and 
enters. lie lifts flap of counter and shuffles about. 
He goes to window beside the door on the left of 
the bar, opens shutters, and admits a stream of red 
onorning light. The bar is untidy as it ivas left 
overnight. A peat smoulders on the low fire. 
Codd m^ends the fire and begins to siveep the floor. 
While he is doing so there is a knock at the door. 
He shows surprise, unbolts the door and flings it 
open. A great stream of ruddy light breaks 
through, and in the light appears Jill Wickett. 

Codd. What the mischief do you want ? 

Jill. Some brandy. There ain't a drop at Stone 
Park. Sam very near croaked last night. I thought 
he was gone. But he ain't got the sense even to die, 
poor creature. Northmore's given us a ticket for the 
hospital to Tavistock, lie goes in to-morrow if they 
can move him. 

Codd. Be the new sheplierd come? 

49 D 



50 THE MOTHER act m 

Jill. Farmer ain't got one yet. 

CoDD. Wonder if Northmore would look at me ? 

Jill. You! A pretty old shepherd you'd make! 
Shepherd to the beer barrels be your business. 

CoDD. I'm leaving The Green Man. 

Jill. Not you ! You'll never go. 

OoDD. 'Tis that damned dog up over. [Pointing to 
ceiling.] Speak soft, else he'll hear you. Sacked me — 
sacked me after fifty year of work, with his father and 
grandfather afore him. 

Jill. 'Twill come to nought. You'll stop. 

CoDD. 'Tis done I tell you. In my rage I gave 
gave notice again — just a habit I've failed into when 
that thorn pricks me — and he's took it. And when I 
went to his mother, she upheld him, 

Jill. She's always on his side. She's always 
fighting the devil for him. 

CoDD. But I ain't done with him yet, I'll get my 
knife into the wretch afore I'm gone. 

Jill. [Interested.] You're not the only one, I 
reckon. He wants 

CoDD. He wants hell ; and I be going to give it to 
him, the Lord helping. Justice be his cry — then let 
him taste it. I'd lie behind a hedge and put day- 
light into him if I wasn't so old and near my end. 

Jill. What's he done to you ? 

CoDD. Five shilling a week pension — that's what 
he's done to me. Five shilling a week, after fifty year 
o' work ! 

Jill. Give me a drink — I'm thirsty. 



ACT III THE MOTHER 51 

CoDD. \^Drawing beer.] An eye for an eye be the 
law, and a tooth for a tooth. That's justice. 

Jill. [Br inks.] Here's justice for him then, and 
ten years in gaoL 

CoDD. Ah ! Can you say that ? 

Jill. I'm joking. He's nought to me. 

CoDD. You be the fighting sort that might help an 
old man. 

Jill. I don't want to quarrel with people. I'm a 
very easy, good-tempered woman, and my poor husband 
will tell you so, and Ives Pomeroy ought to know, if 
anybody did. When I be happy, I like for everybody 
else to be happy ; but when I'm troubled, I get wicked 
and don't care what mischief I make. 

CoDD. I be the same. That's justice, that is. 

Jill. You let Pomeroy alone — he's too strong for 
you. 

CoDD. Is he? How if his hay -ricks catched fire 
some fine night ? He's at odds with Matthew North- 
more and a score o' men. 'Twould never be guessed 
who done it. 

Jill. [Laughing.] You're dull. If I hated a chap, 
I reckon my wits would work sharper than that. 

CoDD. "What could hit him harder than his 
hay? 

Jill. Why, you want to get him locked up, don't 
you, not yourself ? 'Tis for him to set fire to another 
man's ricks. 

OoDD. Ah ! If you want to do a bit of proper, 
clever wickedness, ax a female to \\'A[). 



52 THE MOTHER act hi 

Jill. That's true, so I'd best be gone afore you 
wake the devil in me. 

CoDD. 'Tis all hiss and no sting with you. What's 
the use of being a snake if you can't bite ? 

Jill. I'm no snake — only a terrible unlucky woman. 

CoDD. You want the fool for yourself — when your 
husband dies. [^Laughs sourly. 1 That's the game ; but 
don't you think it. You won't get him. He laughs 
at you behind your back and calls you foul names — 
to please somebody else. 

Jill. Does he ? If it weren't for his mother 

CoDD. What's she to you ? Didn't she do her best 
to keep him from marrying you in the first place ? 
You be frightened to do anything when it comes to a 
bit o' danger, 

Jill. Frightened — me ? What have I got to lose 
— here or anywhere? 'Tis only fear of loss makes 
you frightened. 

CoDD. Why don't you have a dash at the rogue 
and serve him same as he's served other people ? 

Jill. I wouldn't sink to it. [Pause.^ But, of course, 
any fool could see how to do it. Him and Northmore, 
at Stone Park, are always at each other's throats, 
like a brace o' dogs, the Lord knows why. 

CoDD. 'Tis over this here bar-maiden — Ruth 
Rendle. 

Jill. What? 

CoDD. Didn't you know? Pomeroy's after her 
now on the quiet. I've marked it. 

Jill. You mean that ? 



ACT III THE MOTHER 53 

CoDD. Yes, I do ; and seeks to please her by scorning 
you. That's enough to quicken your wits I should 
think. 

Jill. I wouldn't dirt my hands with the cur. But 

if I was you — then I should be very like to 

[Going, 

CoDD. What? 

Jill. Be very like to remember that he often rides 
past Stone Park to Amicombe Hill, where the peat 
works are. And he often comes back of an evening, 
when the farm be very quiet and the day's work 
done. 

CoDD. That's right. 

Jill. And, if he was my enemy, I should reckon a 
chap like him would be quite equal to putting a 
match to Northm'ore's big cattle-byre, and then off 
and away. 

CoDD. By God! 

Jill. And I should have a look round, if I worked 
here, for his bills and papers. 

CoDD. No need — he leaves 'em all over the shop. 

Jill. A careless chap. 

CoDD. And then, after the blaze, you find some of 
his letters, or what not, in the ruins ? 

Jill. Me! What be talking about? This ain't 
got nothing to do with me. Don't you drag nie in, 
or I'll tell the policeman. All I say is, that if isucli a 
thing did happen, 'tis Matthew Northmore himself 
ought to find the proofs — not a poor, busy woman 
with her hands full of work and a dying husband. 



54 THE MOTHER act iii 

CoDD. The devil did ought to be proud of you ! 

Jill. Don't you say that. I'm all right. Kobody 
have ever catched me in a crooked act, and nobody 
ever shall. I do to others as I'd be done by. I'm 
only saying what a bad chap, like Ives Pomeroy, 
might do. 

CoDD. 'Twould be a good turn for Northmore too. 
Once that dog's put away and all's clear for farmer. 
Pomeroy rides off some fine morning, and then 
ISTorthmore comes down here after this wench, and 
you send George Bonus on an errand. 

Jill. Not I. I don't have nothing to do with it. 
I only hope as Pomeroy won't think on such a fearful 
deed. 

CoDD. He'll have done it afore Michaelmas. 

Jill. Think no more of it, Emmanuel. You're 
not clever enough, nor yet wicked enough, to manage 
a job like that. I was only making fun, 

CoDD. 'Tis fun that'll get the broad arrow on to 
Ives Pomeroy, I hope. 

Jill. He'd look very nice in knickerbockers — 
wouldn't he ? 

Enter AviSA from door behind bar. 

CoDD. What was it you wanted, Jill ? 

Jill. Morning, ma'am. Just a drop of brandy for 
my poor man. There's none left. They take Sammy 
to the 'orspital to-moirow. 

Avis^. I'm glad he's going, 

Jill. And you did ought to go too, ma'am, by the 
look of you. 



ACT III THE MOTHER 55 

AviSA. [Getting brandy and pouring it into a 
smaller bottle.^ ^^y? i^^y J I can stand to work still. 

Jill. [Aside to Avisa.] I shan't forget that night 
when you came to me at the Hunter's Cross, ma'am, 
and showed me my duty. I'm terrible unhappy and 
terrible sorry for all my sins. I wish I was going to 
die instead of Sammy. 

Avisa. Your life's to live. Hurry back to him. 
[Gives Jill the bottle.] No — you needn't pay for it. 

Jill. Thank you, ma'am. God bless you for all 
you've done for me. 'Tis a beastly world and full of 
unkind folk. I hate everybody in it but you. 

[Uxit Jill. 

Enter Iazzie from behind bar, 

Lizzie. Mother, you didn't ought to be down yet. 
Don't you stop here. Ruth's getting breakfast. 
[Kisses Avisa.] How do you find yourself this 
morning ? 

Avisa. I slept very well, my dear. 

[Exeunt Avisa and Lizzie through door behind bm\ 

[CoDD stops sweeping and looks about. Lifts 

a paper or two on the mantelshelf ; then 

goes behind bar and looks at other papers 

hanging on a file, 

/iJnter Ives. He is in his shirt and trousers, with his 
braces round his loaist. He carries a towel and a 
cake of white suap. 

Ives. Morninf]j, Emmanuel. 



66 THE MOTHER act hi 

[CoDD looks at him sourly^ hut does not speak. 
He is tidying in the bar, 

Ives. I want you. I've larned something since 
yesterda-y. 

CoDD. There's a lot for you to larn. 

Ives. Touching your pension, Codd. 

CoDD. Call it a " pension " ! 

Ives. You shall have more than I offered. I've 
talked it over with mother. "Twas less than the fair 
thing. I spoke in haste. 

Codd. Your way always. 

Ives, Well, well, don't growl no more, for God's 
sake. We shall soon part. 

CoDD. I won't thank you for anything, if that's 
what you're after. I've done my duty in your family 
for fifty year, and if you and your mother be going 
to do yours — well, 'tis time — and only the justice 
you're always talking about. 

Ives. You was to have had five shilling a week for 
your life. 

CoDD. After fifty year o' work ! 

Ives. But we're going to give you three half- 
crowns, Emmanuel. 

Codd. Three half-crowns ! Justice — eh ! Three 
half-crowns for fifty years' work ! 

Ives. [Angiy.] Get out of my sight, then — be gone, 
you thankless dog ! 

[CoDD, in fear, hurries outy and Iyes flings his 
broom out of the door and kicks a bucket out 
after him, Kuth enters from behind bar. 



ACT III THE MOTHER 57 

Ruth. Anything wrong ? 

Ives. Everything's wrong. What's the use of 
trying to meet men ? Seven-and-six a week for life, 
and he — there, why should I bother you about it ? 
How's mother to-day ? 

Ruth. She's a lot happier ever since you've been 
back ; but we must keep her happy, Ives : the happier 
she is, the better for her. Peace and calm she must 
have. 

Ives. What more can I do ? Haven't I said that 
I'll be the death of anybody that frets her ? 

Ruth. She's slept well — and she's taking an egg 
to her breakfast — I made her. 

Ives. You're a proper fairy in this house. And 
you're only paid with trouble. I wish I was so 
patient as you. 'Tis the people — the people make me 
mad. I can be so wise and clever as anybody — 
when I'm all by myself. 

Ruth, I know — I know, Ives. 'Twould be so easy 
to live — if life didn't come between. 'Tis all a battle. 

Ives. [Helping to tidy the bar.'] That old devil, 
Codd 

Ruth. Never mind him. Smooth out your fore- 
head. 

Ives. I've took to thinking a lot about things 
lately, Ruth. 

Ruth. I know you have. 

Ives. Nobody's got more to vex 'em than you, 
come to think of it. 

Ruth, Life's dilhcult even for the least of iks. 



58 THE MOTHER 



ACT ill 



Ives. So 'tis for anybody who wants to be honest 
and straight. I can talk to you because — because 
you understand things. I like to tell you my secrets. 
I cared a lot for Jill Wickett, you know. I'd have 
took her away from that poor sick sheep, her husband. 
I felt she belonged to me somehow. In justice I felt 
it. We was running off together ; but then I found 
myself up against justice again. At the last minute, 
when all was fixed up, I heard how Sammy had lost 
his uncle's money, and she knew it. She offered to 
run away with me for craft, not for love ; and I hated 
her then, to think how she'd played with me — hard- 
hearted bitch. And I paid her in her own coin. 
Women never forgive the chap that finds 'em out. 
I met her two days agone, and she looked through 
me, as if I was a pane o' glass. But she's got to hear 
me afore long. She's got to know why I did it. 

Ruth. I don't think she's the sort to bear malice. 
Live and let live is her motto. 

Ives. You say life's so difficult. I wish 'twas in 
my power to make it easier for you. 

Ruth. How kind to wish that, but 

Ives. One man's the trouble. One man makes it 
hard— eh, Ruth ? 

Ruth. Don't be angered with him. He can't see 
what he's doing — poor Matthew. I think sometimes 
I ought to go. But your mother 

Ives. 'Tis he ought to go — the long-faced monkey. 
He's plaguing you to death. Ban't just or fair, and 
I'm itchins: to tell him so. 



ACT III THE MOTHER 59 

Ruth. Don't, don't dream of it. 
Ives. My eyes have been opened a lot of late. 
There's none to stand up for you. 

Enter Browf. 

Brown. [^Tahes off his hat to Ruth.] Good morn- 
ing. Not dressed, Ives ! Is Lizzie going to see me 
on my way to school ? 

Ruth. For certain she is, Mr. Brown. 

[Exit Ruth into parlour. 

Brown. All nature rejoices in the morning 
sunshine ; all nature is up and dressed but you, 
Ives. 

Ives. Oh Arthur, how the devil do you keep so 
well content with everything that happens ? 

Brown. I wish I could teach you the secret of a 
mind at ease. 

Ives. You teach me a deuce of a lot of things — not 
worth knowing. 

Brown. I'm ready and willing to help everybody. 
I came into the world to help it. 

Ives. You're so terrible good. But good for what ? 
Your virtues would sink a ship ; but what do you 
do ? You only teach brats and knock all the joy and 
fight out of them. 

Brown. I knock the fight out of them, certainly. 
God never made their little hands to double into 
fists. 

Ives. Well, I can't swear at you no more, though 
I shall laugh at you till my d} ing day. 

Brown. Only a fool laughs at a wise man, Ives. 



eo THE MOTHER act hi 

Ives. But a wise man is the first to langh at him- 
self. 

Brown. Thank God I've never seen anything to 
laugh at in myself. 

Ives. I suppose not. 

Brown. I have my share of self-respect, I believe. 

Ives. You have, Arthux* — and a bit over. 

Brown. And I know whom to thank for my powers. 

Ives. But God and Nature ain't the same. 'Tis a 
question in my mind which be the stronger. 

Brown. That shows weak faith. Nature is only 
the servant. Heaven is all-powerful. 

[jEnter Mr. Cawker with an old faking creel 
and a rod in three 2y'ieces. He has a cast 
of trout-flies round his battered hat and 
calories a hunch of jyrimroses. 

Ives. And the Devil ? What's the end of him ? 

Cawker. The end of the Devil be his tail, my dear. 

Ives. Who believes in him now ? 

Brown. All honest Christians. We know the 
Devil better, that's all. We see through him. We 
understand his dreadful plots upon the soul. If 
heaven can be within us, then hell can. 

Ives. I know that much. 

Cawker. 'Tis too fine a morning for preaching, 
schoolmaster. 

Ives. I want to see justice done in the world. 

Brown. We are all put here to do it and work 
for it. 

Cawker, We're put here to play, not work. We're 



Af 1 III THE MOTHER 61 

the Lord's children ; and don't a parent like to yee his 
little ones having a romp ? We'll grow up in heaven 
— not here. We're the only creatures that drink 
when we ain't thirsty ; the only creatures that play 
kiss in the ring ; the only creatures that can make a 
joke and see a joke ; the only creatures that know 
how to tell a good sporting lie and stick to it. Think 
of all that ! Let the beasts that perish work ; not us 
fine things with immortal souls. 

Brown. Work is good physic, if nothing more. 
Cawker. But I don't want no physic. I ain't ill. 
I only ask to run about and play till I drop. The 
rich people hate me. Why? Because I will do the 
same as them, and enjoy myself, and get the full taste 
of life afore I die. 

Brown. Many, like myself, are only happy when 
engaged in good works, my poor fellow. 

Cawker. Let 'em work if they want to work. We 
don't even do that. There's thousands crying for 
work and the world won't give it to 'em. 

Brown. If all men did what was right in their 
own eyes, what becomes of the State and the Church 
and our most cherished institutions, neighbour ? You 
forget that man is a fallen creature, Mr. Cawker, 
We are all born sinners — remember that. 

Cawker. You may have been ; I wasn't. I wasn't 
born a sinner. I was born a babby — so innocent as 
any kitten, or puppy, that ever came squeaking into 
a hard world. I ban't a miserable sinner, school- 
master; I'm a happy sinner. 



62 THE :\IOTHER act hi 

Beown. There's a recording angel, as you'll find to 
youi' cost some day, my poor soul. 

Cawker. Of course there is — a large-minded chap, 
no doubt. And d'you think my little sins are going 
to bother him ? A few birds with uncertain owners ; 
and a few salmon coming up from the sea, and a few 
jokes against my betters, including my Maker — what 
is it after all ? Just schoolboy naughtiness ! And 
won't the angel know it ? 

[Enter Ayisa and Lizzie. Lizzie has her sun- 

honnet on. She comes through hatch of 

bar. Brown raises his hat to her and 

hoics. Ayisa stops tehind. bar. 

Cawkee. Good morning — good morning, ma'am. 

Your soul shines through your body like the moon 

through a ghost I I've fetched along these here prim- 

rosen for 'e — picked with my own honest hand. 

[Beowx shakes his head to Lizzie and they go 
out together. 
AviSA, Thank you, Moleskin. 

[Smells thejiov:ers and smiles at them 
Cawkee. With all the dew of the morning on 'em ; 
and now I be wanting a drop o" dew myself. 
Ives. Scotch mist, I reckon. 

[Gives him a drink from the little barrel. 

AviSA sits by the fire. She is very weak. 

Cawker. Pretty drinking ! I'll fetch e a few sizable 

trout coming home-along, Avisa. Yuu make her eat 

'em, Ives. [Exit Cawker. 



ACT III THE MOTHER 63 

AvisA. Don your coat, my dear, and get your 
breakfast. 

Ives. Here's Ruth. You mustn't do no work, 
mother. 

AvisA. I'm very well to-day. 

Enter Ruth. 

Ruth. Your food's in the fender to keep warm, 
Ives. 

[Ives nods and goes behind bar, Ruth 
crosses to AviSA and lifts the cushions in 
her chair. 
AviSA. Talk to me a minute, Ruth. 
Ruth. How do you feel to-day ? 
AviSA. The tide be ebbing. I wish — I wish ; but 
'tis only selfishness. How's Northmore ? 
Ruth. Just the same. 

AviSA, A young chap gets over his love troubles ; 
but such as him — after love's once melted 'em into if s 
mould there's no changing. They'll break, but they 
can't thaw. I'm very sad for him. 

Enter Butcher's Boy. 

Boy. Half a pint o' bitter, please, miss. 
Ruth. [Serves him.] Hullo, Teddy ! 
Boy. I be going to kill two o' Mr. Northmore's pig?'. 
Just the day for it ! [Drinks.] Gude morning, miss. 
[Pays for his drink. Ruth nods to hii)). 
[Kxit Boy whistling, 
Ruth. [7^o A visa.] Did I ought to go from hoio ? 



64 THE MOTHER act m 

AviSA. 'Tis hard to say that. You know what's 
in my heart. [Paiose.] The greatest good to Ives. 
[Ua7mestly.] Go on loving him, for God's sake ! Never 
stop loving him. Oh, woman., he's better than you 
know ! There's good growing in him, like the corn 
in the earth. 'Tis the weak seedling be best worth 
tending, for it do often bring the loveliest flower. 
Much of him be hid from the world, but not from me. 
He's done proper things that only I know about. 
He's fighting a good fight. 'Tis my joy to know that 
you love him so steadfast, and that you could forgive 
me for finding it out. But no maid could have hid 
that from a mother's eyes. 

Unte7' George Bonus. 

Bonus. Morning — morning ! The usual, please. 
The weather be going to turn thirsty, I do believe. 
AviSA. How's Samuel ? 

[Ruth draios beer for Bonus. 

Bonus. Very near died last night — so his wife says. 
We take him to Tavistock to-morrow, and he'll never 
come back no more ; but he thinks he will, poor toad. 
Don't know death when he sees it staring at him. 
His eyes be blinded a' purpose, by the goodness of the 
Lord. [Drinks.] Well, so long. [Fxii Bonus. 

AvTSA. I'm a terrible selfish woman where my boy's 
the matter ; but you can forgive me that, Ruth. 

Ruth. Forgive you ! I'd give my life for you. 

A VISA. You can help me now, because you're so 



ACT III THE MOTHER 65 

strong and I'm gone so weak. There's no nature in me 
no more. Be there anything I ought to do ? Be there 
any mortal thing I've missed for him and left undone 
that's in my power? I often puzzle of a night 
thinking on it. 

Ruth. No — no — 'tis very certain youVe forgot 
nothing. 

AviSA. There's nought jogs your memory like love. 
[Smiling.] There'll be a good few little surprises for 
him when I go. I've trusted him in everything, you 
know, Ruth. He'll feel my perfect trust, won't he ? 
[Ruth nods.] 'Tis a great thing for the young to be 
trusted. It builds up their proper pride. When I 
was a little wee girl, if my mother trusted me with a 
parcel, I'd be so proud as a peacock. Go I must, and 
quickly now, yet I feel 'tis too soon to go from him, 
Ruth. 

Ruth. Don't talk of going — don't think of it. 

AviSA. [Smiling.] But there — 'tis always too soon 
for a mother to leave her boy. [Ruth goes over and 
kisses her. She takes Ruth's hand.] Be brave and 
watchful, and, above all, patient. For my sake you 
will, Ruth ? 

Ruth. That I will. 

A VISA. [Smiling and taking Ruth's arm.] God 
bless you. I wish I could help you too. But we 
poor women — there's only one rule for us — to put 
on a brave face and hide our hearts. 

[Exeunt Avisa and Ruth through the door at 
hack of bar, 

J2 



66 THE MOTHER act hi 

Enter Northmore and Emmanuel Codd. 

CoDD. Yes, I be ofif — after more than fifty year. 
'Tis his wicked work. He hates truth and honesty 
and all I stand for; but I'll defy the wretch to 
his face so long as my tongue can move in my 
mouth. 

Northmore. I heard he was mending and going 
straight. 

CoDD. Mending — do a wolf mend ? 

Northmore. They change their hair — not their 
hearts, 'tis said. 

Codd. A liar and treacherous as the river — laughs 
at everything that's holy and right — cares nought 
that his mother be dropping into her grave afore his 
very eyes. A limb of Satan he is, and don't you trust 
him, for he's no friend to you, or any other honest 
man. 

Enter Ruth from behind bar, 

Ruth. Good morning, Matthew. [Exit Codd. 

[Northmore shakes her hand without speaking, 
but looks at her with bmming eyes and the 
unreasoning expresdon of a fanatic, 

Ruth. 'Tis a beautiful morning. 

Northmore. Have you thought of what I said 
yesterday ? Don't put it away — don't forget it. 
You can't do that. 'Tisn't selfishness in me. I'd 
live for you if I could ; but if that's not to be, I'll 
die for you. I'm past the selfish stage. I only want 



ACT III THE MOTHER 67 

you to be happy and safe and out of reach of them 
that would do you harm. 

Ruth. I know, I know you mean nought but 
kindness to me, and always have. 

NoRTHMORE. Then trust me. Leave this place and 
go out of reach of them all. I hate you to be here — 
amid coarse, common people. I hate you to serve 
beer to ploughboys and hear all their beastly 
talk. 

Ruth. You don't know the many reasons — there's 
Mrs, Pomeroy. 

NoRTHMORE. Then stop within reach of her. And 
let me stand between you and the rest. Let me come 
between. Say *^ yes " to me, Ruth — say " yes " to me. 
I beseech it, I implore it ! Then you can bide and 
take care of her while she's so ill. But let me be the 
shield and the tower of strength ; for God's sake, 
Ruth — for God's sake ! [l^akes her hand and kisses it. 

Ruth. [Withdrawing her hand.] Oh Matthew — 
you'll break my heart ! [ Weeps bitterly. She has 
her face down between her hands on the counter^ and 
he lifts his hands over her headj yearniyighj^ as though 
to bless her.] 

Enter ly^H from outer door. He is now 
completely attired. 

Ives. What's wrong, Ruth ? \To NoRTinroin-:.] 
You again ? Haven't you got more sense ? 
NoRTHMORE. 1*11 uot speidv to you. 
Ives. Then listen to me. Do you kuuw what 



68 THE MOTHER act hi 

you're doing ? Have you eyes in your head ? Let 
that woman be cheerful for a moment, and you 
cloud her ; let her find a spark o' joy and you come 
and put it out. [Exit Ruth through door behind bar.] 
You frighten her — like a bully frightens his horse — 
She doesn't know which way to turn. She — You're 
no man to do it ; and, love her or not, you 

[N'oRTHMORE. [Fimousli/.] Shut your mouth ! How 
dare you talk to me — the likes of you ! Is the girl 
your business — damn you ? She's an angel from 
heaven — that's what she is. How can a thing like 
you measure a woman like her ? 

Ives. [Steadied.] No ; I don't know how good she 
is. No man knows how good a woman can be. She 
bides here for my mother's sake — only for that — and 
she's got no chap to take care of her and warn off 
them that ban't wanted, so I mean to. 

NoRTHMORE. You— vou Canting, crooked-minded 
trash — you to preach to me ! Who are you to 
dare — ? If she understood the truth of you — - 
Herd with your evil kind — you that run after other 



men s wives 



Ives. Better that than torment a maiden who 
hates your shadow ! Look in your glass, you grey- 
haired fool ! Clear out of this and never come back 
no more, or I'll hit you down ! 

NoRTHMORE. [Ilis temper gone,] You gaol-bird ! 

Touch me, would you ? I'm not too old to 

[Strikes Pomeroy across the cheek vnth his 
whip^ as AviSA enters from behind the bar. 



ACT III THE MOTHER 69 

Ives Jlies at his throat, AvivSA thrusts 
between them. They fall apart, 

AviSA. Are you men, or wicked children ? 

Ives. Keep away ! 

AvisA. [^Struggling with Ives.] He's old enough to 
be your father ! 

Ives. [Falling back.] Them that can give blows 
can take them. 

NoRTHMORE. Let him come. 

AviSA. [To NoRTHMORE.] You'll rue this to your 
dying day. 

NoRTHMORE. He laughs at my grey hairs — but not 
at my whip. 

IvES. Liar ! I never laughed ... I only 

NoRTHMORE. I'd kill you for this if I could ! 

Ives. You'll kill a woman — not a man. 

NoRTHMORE. Good God, I 

[ffe starts forward and A vis A holds his whij) 
and drags it out of his hand. 

AviSA. Shame on you, Matthew ! 

NoRTHMORE. This dirt to preach to me. 

AviSA. Shame, I say — what right have you ? 

NoRTHMORE. Woman, you don't know 

Ives. If you're too old to thiash, you're not too 
old to hear. 

AvisA. Li«t to me 

Ives. Don't hold him, mother. I'll not toncli him 
I'll or^ly smite his ears with truth. Ruth Kendle 
hates and loathes the man. 



70 THE MOTHER act iii 

NoRTHMORE. Am I to suffer this ? 

[^Stai'ts forward. AviSA holds him. Ives 
crosses his arms and doesnH move, 

Ives. Hit me again on t'other cheek. You've got 
it in your heart. 

Avis A. [Putting an arm on Korthmore's shoulder 
and holding his clenched fist. ^ Heed me, heed me, for 
Christ's sake ! Huth never hated no man. Not 
built to hate. You're wicked to let Nature break 
loose from sense. 

NoRTHMORE. There's some things no decent dog 
would do. 

Ives. And you've done 'em ! 

NoRTHMORE. You poisonous wretch ! 

A VISA. [Again coming hetween them.] Afore God 
I order you to cease ! [To Northmore.] Can such as 
you — a man that's been a pattern to his neighbours — ? 
No, you shan't go, Matthew ; this shan't stop here. 

Ives. Let him go and hide himself. 

Avis A. Speak no more evil against him. 'Tis you 
should hide. The man was in his right to come 
here — where all are welcome. 

Ives. Was he in his right to torture a defence- 



less ? 

Northmore. Stop him — shut his mouth, or I won't 
answer for myself. 

AviSA. [To Ives.] Give heed to me, while I can 
speak. For my words will soon be numbered, This 
man was here on a sacred errand. I name it as I'd 



ACT III THE MOTHER 71 

name any other holy thing. YouVe wounded his 
heart, but it shan't fester. To Ruth he came 

NoRTHMORE. Keep that off your lips, Widow 
Pomeroy. That's not your business. 

A VIS A. I'm saying it isn't, Matthew. A secret, 
sacred thing, between you and her ; and for my son 
to thrust in was madness. 

Ives. Let me be mad if he's sane. 

AviSA. He answered a boy's folly with a man's 
anger. 'Tis all the point of view. 

Ives. Who'd see a girl sobbing her heart out and 
not thrust in to help her ? 

AviSA. If he made Ruth weep, 'twas for other 
reasons than you know. She's a woman, and woman's 
tears oft sink deeper than sorrow, and go higher than 

joy. 

NoRTHMORE, You were a thief and would be again. 
This girl — what's she to you ? Is she your woman ? 
KSince we are to strip hearts, I'll strip mine for your 
mother's eyes, that know no evil. [To A visa.] I lova 
her and I'm striving with all my poor might to make 
her love me. 

Ives. Love! 

Northmore. a sort of love you'll never reach to, 
nor feel, nor fathom. 

Ives. To give a woman hell be a funny sort of way 
to love her. 

Northmore. Not hell — I'd give her heavon if 1 
could, and she'll live to know it. I'm the right and 
proper mini for her. Afore God 1 am. 



72 THE MOTHER act iii 

AvisA. Then between you and her and her God it 
lies. 

NoRTHMORE. 'Tis Very strange to speak such things 
to any living creature. [To A visa.] But you know 
men. You understand. [To Ives.] You angered me 
past bearing. I forgot your rash nature. You 
don't know what you do and rush in where angels 
fv^ouldn't. 

AviSA. Leave it there. Our feet stand firm again. 
My boy made a mistake and he's paid. 

Ives. I went to work wrong. I grant that. My 
business wasn't with you. 

NoRTHMORE. Then I'll not say less. I'm sorry I 
fell upon you. I ask you to pardon me. 

Ives. I earned it. 

NoRTHMORE. You're young and strong and your 
life's ahead of you. The young can afford to forgive. 
The world's to the young. Passion and hot blood's 
proper to you. You can carry them^ but I — I'm 
sorry I forgot my age. 

[Holds out his hand. Ives takes it, 

Ives. I'm sorry too. 'Twasn't the proper way. 
I'd no right to come between you — not like that. 
Forgive me. 

NoRTHMORE. Anything but there — I'll yield all else 
but in that quarter. I'm a very patient man — save 
there. But she — she's above reason — and law — and 
religion. She's my " life. There's nothing in the 
world that matters but her. I'll atone for striking 



ACT [II THE MOTHER 7S 

you. I'll give myself up if you say so. I'll go before 
the Justices and be punished for that blow. 

Ives. [Laughing.] Get home, Matthew, or they'll 
say you're as mad as me. 

NoRTHMORE. I'll do good things to you. [To AviSA.] 
I shan't forget this. I'll be his faithful friend. 

AviSA. I know it, Matthew, I know it. 

[Ives gives Northmore his whip. 

NoRTHMORE. I'll do good things, I tell you. 

[Exit NORTHMORE. 

Ives. Poor devil. I'm sorry for him. 'Tis he 
that's the madman. Thank God you came in, 
mother, or I should have 

Avis A. Help me ! I'm gone weak — I 



[She falls into his arms and he supports her to 
her chair. 

Ives. There — there — you're better — say you're 
better. [Hastens to bring her drink. 

AviSA. 'Tis nothing. No — I don't want no drink. 
My boy's my drink. You was patient and brave. 
I'm proud of you. 

Ives. [Rubbing hi^ cheek.] I'm learning. Be you 
better? Your face is awful grey. Just a little drop 
to please me. 

AviSA. [She drinks.] Kneel down here a minute. 
'Tis well with me, but I can't be here much longer. 
And full of trust I go — full of trust in you, sonny. 

Ives. I've shortened your life — I know that bitter 
well. 

AvisA. You've kept me alivo. For }ou I've gone 



74 THE MOTHER act tii 

x)n living. But I shan't be far off when I go. 
The Lord won't take me out of reach of my 
boy. 

Ives. You mustn't go till I've made amends. I 
can't live without you, mother ! [Pause. 

AviSA. Poor man — poor Matthew. Be gentle and 
patient with him. He's got to suffer a lot yet. 

Ives. Terrible what he feels for her. A tearing, 
raging thing. His eyes burn when he names her. 
Can love eat a man alive like that ? Poor Ruth ! 
Too good she is even for him — such a wonder as 
her, 

AviSA, She's a very proper girl, and dear to 
me, 

Ives. You always know what a man or woman^s 
good for. You're always right, I've tried to learn a 
bit from young Ruth, 

AvisA, She can teach most men more than they 
know, 

Ives. And more than they thought to know some- 
times, 

AviSA, She's good to look on, 

Ives. I couldn't speak it afore tliat man. But 
sometimes — if I dared 

AviSA. [Concealing interest'] If ? 

IvES. [NodsJ] But I don't dare, 

AviSA. 'Tis a great thought, Ives. 

Ives. She knows too much about me, I reckon. 

AviSA. 'Tis them that know^ but half of you are 
your enemies. She knows all. 



ACT III THE MOTHER 75 

Ives. Who could hope aught for me but you ? 
Who could put faith in me but you ? 

AvisA. There s always a way for faith and hope — 
if love be there to light 'em, sonny, 

[She puts her arms round Ives and kisses him. 



CURTAIN 



ACT IV 

Scene : The imrlour of ^' The Green Man^ Some 
slight alterations in the room have occurred since 
the events of the first act. There is a big black and 
'white crayon enlargement of a i^hotogra'ph oj 
A VIS A Pome ROY on the mantelpiece, in an ugly 
gold frame. The time is evening, hut the inn has 
not yet closed. 

Lizzie is discovered. She is clad in black. She goes to 
door and admits Mr. Cawker. 

Cawker. Is Policeman Toop here ? He^s coming to 
see Ives about the fire. How's the boy going on 
now ? 

Lizzie. His hand is near well, Mr. Cawker. 

Cawker. I mean his heart, poor chap. 

Lizzie. After mother died he couldn't look forward 
and couldn't look back. 'Twas terrible. Then he 
fell deadly silent. Ruth and I were thankful to the 
fire at Stone Park, for it seemed to wake him up and 
bring him back to life again. 

Cawker. 'Tis one of God's kindest tricks to help us 
to forget . Your best friend dies, and you tliink the 
world's coming to an end. But it don't, and afore 

11 



78 THE MOTHER act iv 

you can look round, you catch yourself laughing and 
drinking, just as you did when your friend was alive. 
The places of the dead be filled up, Lizzie, afore the 
moss have crept to their gravestones. 

Lizzie. Not always. 

Cawker. I miss your mother cruel every time I 
come into *' The Green Man." 'Twas here she suffered 
and here she shone. A veiy rare sort of a woman 
she was. I know a bit about 'em. She was built on 
the grand fashion. How she worked for him — your 
brother. I've seen her weave that chap and Ruth 
Rendle together with her eyes — back and forth 
like a flying shuttle — to entangle their hearts if 
she could. 

Lizzie. [Ifods.] It will happen. Ruth goes to- 
morrow ; but I think she will be back before long. 
Ente7' Ives and Bonus. 

Lizzie. Mr. Cawker to meet Policeman Toop, Ives. 

Ives. [He wears a black hand on his coat sleeve and 
has a quiet and resigned air. One hand is tied up in 
a bandage,] See how the new potman's getting on, 
will 'e. [Uxit Lizzie into bar. To Cawker.] We 
was talking of the fire. Moleskin. If George had only 
been about, we should have saved 'em ; but the 
damned blackguard who did that bit o' work knew 
very well the place was empty. 

Cawker. Toop be full of a clue. He's coming in to 
tell you presently. 

Bonus. A cruel calamity. 

Ives. The cry of those creatures! Where's 



ACT IV THE MOTHER 79 

justice ? Where was God A'mighty, Moleskin, when 
those calves were burning to death ? 

Cawker. The devil doubles on God sometimes — 
like the fox doubles on the hounds. 

Bonus. I don't know nothing about the devil ; but 
I do know they calves had ^' Sultan " for a sire, and 
was worth thirty pound apiece. 

Cawker. How's Northmore took the trouble ? 

Bonus. I be doubtful sometimes if he ain't going 
weak in his head. 

Cawker. Drinks now and be wild after a woman. 
What more can you ask of any honest man ? He's 
your friend ain't he, Ives ? 

Ives. Be blessed if I know. You'd reckon he 
ought to be. We made it up for good and all — 'twas 
my mother brought us together three days afore she 
died. And I was glad to be the one to discover the 
fire and do my best. But he never even thanked me 
for what I done. 

Bonus. Didn't your arm in a sling speak ? 

Cawker. And your mother's death and all ? 

Ives. 'Tis strange, but she don't seem so dead as 
she was a month ago. She's more alive to me than 
half the people in the world. 

Cawker. And well she may be ! [Looks at the pic- 
ture on the mantelshelf.^ Some be living though in 
their graves, and some be dead all the days of their 
life. 

Ives. She said that she wouldn't go very far oil". I 
was planting flowers on her mound t'other ilay. I 



80 THE MOTHER act iv 

could almost hear her heart beating under the grass, 
[Pause.] Come in the bar you chaps, and have a 
drink. 

[They all go through door into bar. A moment 
later Lizzie comes in from bar and as she 
does so there is a knock at the door. She 
goes to it and admits Jill Wickett. 
Jill. Good evening, miss. 'Tis Miss E-endle I 
must see— Mr. Northmore have sent me. 
Lizzie. She's busy packing just now. 
Jill. I can wait. There's no hurry. 
Lizzie. I'll tell her, Jill. [Exit Lizzie upstairs, 

[Jill looks about her^ regards the portrait of 
Mrs. Pomeroy and other portraits on the 
walls. Picks up a small Bible from the 
table and puts it down again in a different 
place by a chair. There is a knock at the 
door, but nobody answers it. The knock 
is repeated, and Jill goes to the door. 
Nicholas Toop appears. 
Toop. Hullo! You! 
Jill. Yes, me. 

Toop. I'd rather meet you anywhere but here. 
Jill. Why? 
Toop. There's talk. 

Jill. And if there is, what's that to you ? 
Toop. I'm a policeman, ain't I ? 
Jill. Ah, 'tis talk you mostly go on. Don't you 
believe all you hear, Mr. Toop. 
Toop. Ives Pom-firoy— — 



ACT IV THE MOTHER 81 

Jill. I ban't here to see him, if that's what you 
mean. He's nought to me, nor me to him. That's 
all over long ago. 

Toop. Honest? 

Jill. God's my judge. [Looking at him out of the 
corner of her eye.\ I shall be a lonely woman pretty 
soon, without a soul to care for me. 

Toop. Don't say that, I could name a rising young 
man — I've got a clue to the fire at Stone Park. 
Single-handed I found it ! 

Jill. We all know what a clever chap you are. 
Anybody in these parts ? 

Toop. No, no. Us don't do that sort of thing 
here. A tramp — a foreigner from Exeter. Howe's 
your Sammy ? 

Jill. Flickering like a night-light, that wants to 
go out and can't. 

Toop. 'Tis the way of a policeman to look all round 
a thing ; and you'll excuse me for naming the sub- 
ject, but I've looked all round you, Mrs. Wickett. 

Jill. Well, I be so good one side as t'other, I 
believe. 

Toop. You're a masterpiece and who doubts it ? 
But poor Sammy will be gone afore we can blow our 
noses ; and the men will be after you, like hawks 
after a linnet. 

Jill. Not they! Who wants a [poor dairymaid, 
without a penny in her pocket ? 

Toop. You've seen more'n your share of trouble, I 
reckon. 

F 



82 THE MOTHER act iv 

Jill. So I have. then. I've had everybody against 
me. And I've made trouble, too^ though God knows 
I'm innocent of it as a babe unborn. 

Toop. You wouldn't hurt a fly, I'm sure. 

Jill. No, I wouldn't — unless it hurt me first. I 
can't be hit without trying to hit back. 

Toop, Of course. That's your brave nature. 

Jill. I met Ives Pomeroy back along, after his 
mother's death, and we had it out. I tell you 
these things because you're a kind man and a fine 
man^ and wouldn't do a friendless woman any 
harm. 

Toop. Had what out ? 

Jill. A quarrel. He used me shameful and I hit 
back ; but now 'tis all over and we understand each 
other. And, of course, if such a chap as you is going 
to be my friend, I don't want to make trouble for 
other people, 

Toop. You women must be speaking in riddles, 

Jill. I only want to do as I be done by, 
Nicholas. 

Toop, I warrant I could make you happy, 
Jill. 

Jill, I daresay you could if you was to try. Be 
your lungs all right ? 

Toop. [St7nking his b7'east.] Sound as a boss ! 

Jill. I like you w^ell enough for that matter. 
You're a man, and what's more, you're a policeman. 
I might be safer along with a policeman. I reckon — 
a helpless, simple creature like me. 



ACT TV THE MOTHER 83 

Toop. Such a clever woman would be a tower of 
strength to me, Jill. 

Jill. [Considering.] Suppose I was to tell you that 
your clue to the fire was all wrong, Nicholas ? 

Toop. What? 

[Ruth and Lizzie descend stairs together, 

Ruth. I'm so sorry^ Jill, but 

Jill. 'Tis no odds, I had company. \_To Ruth 
aside.] Mr. Northmore be riding up this evening afore 
ten o'clock. 'Tis very special indeed, and he'll thank 
you to see him — alone. 

Ruth. Yes, Jill. 

Enter Brown. He carries a7i umbrella. 

Brown. Am I de trop ? 

Toop. [To Jill.] Come out along with me. I want 
to hear a bit more about this. [To Lizzie.] You might 
tell your brother that I've called, miss, but that 
nought is certain yet. There's mysteries in the air. 
About the fire I mean. 

Lizzie. I'll tell him, Mr. Toop. 

[Exeunt Toop and Jill Wickett. 

Brown. Why isn't that woman at her husband's 
death-bed ? [Exit Ruth upstairs, 

Lizzie, You're late, dear Arthur. 

Brown. [Takes out loatch.] I tliink not, Lizzie. 
But my visit must be short this evening. 

Lizzie. Oh, dear ! Shall I get the dominoes? 

Brown. [Sitting hij tJie siiudl Bihle fhat^u^. moi'^d..'] 



84 THE MOTHER act iv 

No,, I am not in the mood for games of skill to-night. 
We will talk, I have been looking ahead. 

\Pichs up the little Bible at his elbow, 

Lizzie. [Sitting some distance from him.] You 
always look ahead. 

Brown. Have you nothing to occupy your fingers, 
Lizzie ? 

[Lizzie rises, gets some work, and returns to 
her seat. 

Brown. [Turning over the leaves of the hooh.] Your 
mother's Bible, I see. 

Lizzie. Yes, her little one. She's left it to Ruth 
in her will. 

Brown. Her will caused me a great deal of surprise. 
However — the book is well thumbed. She was a 
pious woman — according to her lights. 

Lizzie. Dear mother never talked about it. 

Brown. A great mistake. We should wave the 
flag of Faith vigorously for all to see — both in and 
out of season. [He puts the Bible down beside him, 

Lizzie. You're so brave, Arthur. 

Brown. Yes, I am brave. And I am also patient. 
Still patience can be pushed too far, Lizzie. Our 
nuptials must be celebrated this autumn — I don't 
propose to wait after the first of October. 

Lizzie. You darling ! As soon as ever Ives 

Brown. I recognize his position. But the future 
husband must not be sacrificed to the brother. 

Lizzie. No, no. He's so different now — so good 
and gentle. 



ACT IV THE MOTHER 85 

Brown. Always gardening on his mother's grave, 
I hear. I hope the solemn experience of his parent's 
death is not merely seed sown on stony ground — I 
do hope not. It is now eight weeks since the inter- 
ment, Lizzie. 

Lizzie. Nine, Arthur. 

Brown. Pardon me — eight, Lizzie. 

Lizzie. [Reflects.'] You're right, of course. I do 
believe you're faultless, Arthur ! It must be so hard 
for you to feel how different everybody else is. 

Brown. They needn't be — they needn't be. And 
indeed I'm not faultless — far from that, Lizzie. My 
weakness is intellectual pride. I catch myself 
occasionally exulting in my brain power. As for Ives 
— remorse is a very healthy emotion, though I 
believe a painful one. Thank God, I was never 
called to feel it. 

[Enter Ives from the bar. He looks at theni^ 
sitting far apart, and a passing grin 
touches his face. 

Ives. Still spooning ! What a fiery old devil you 
are, Arthur. 

Brown. There is an embrace of the soul, Ives. 
And please don't call me *^a fiery old devil." 

Ives. But you ought tojcuddle her now and again — 
just for practice. 

Brown. Self-discipline — self-discipline, my j^oor 
fellow. [Gets up arid takes his hat.] Lizzie will tell 
you that we are not above temporal considerations. 
I have decided that we wed in the autumn. 



86 THE MOTHER act iv 

Ives. Wait for the frosts ! Yours did ought to be 
a snowy wedding. 

Lizzie. Don't, don't say that, Ives ! 

Brown. Good night, dearest one. 

[JTisses Lizzie on the forehead. 

Ives. Well done, Arthur ! Afore me too ! 

Brown. If we fear not God's eyes, why should we 
fear a sinful man's ? 

[Exit Brown. 

IVlES. Well^ you'll have the most wonderful thing 
that ever walked this earth in a pair of black trousers, 
my dinky girl ! 

Lizzie. He's forgotten his umbrella — fancy that ! 
[Takes it and hastens after Brown, Ruth 
descends the stairs. 

Ives. Done your packing ? 

Ruth. Yery nearly. Where's my little Bible your 
dear mother gave me ? [Seeks where it was and fails 
to find it,] It was here. 

Ives. [At door,] When I look down on the village 
I seem to see all mother in one glance, Ruth. 

Ruth. Light and warmth she was to them that 
knew her. 

Ives. And now the lamp be out. 

Ruth, Only lifted higher, Ives. 

[Seeks Bible but does not find it, 

Ives. 'Tis us be struck to death, not her. Oh, Ruth, 
Ruth, and me a bad son to her ! That rare mother 
to have such dross for a son — [Shuts the door and 
comes in.] Her work's over. Her beautiful deeds are 



ACT TV THE MOTHER 87 

all ended now. 'Twas good for the earth that she 
came on it, Ruth, 

Ruth. [JVods.] 'Tis sacred ground to us where she 
went. 

Ives. Ruth — now or never — I want — I want to 
tell you — afore you go. [A knock at door, 

Ruth. Mr. Northmore to see me, I reckon. 

[Goes to door. 

Ives. Him ! 

Ruth. [Returning from door hefore she opens it,^ 
Don't go. Speak to him a minute. I want you to — 
You — you shall talk to me after — if you must. 

Ives. You promise ? 

Ruth. I promise. 

[Goes to door and lets in Northmore. 

Ives. [In a friendly spirit^ Here's the man ! 
Come in, Matthew, and — [Holds out his hand.] 
I'm cruel sorry for your trouble. 

Northmore. [JVot taki7ig his hand.^ Are you ? 

[Shaking his head, 

Ruth. He burned himself all up the arm trying to 
save your calves, Matthew. 

Ives. That was nought. I'm only sorry I come 
too late. The man that did that job ought to swing 
for it, 

Northmore. You're a hard case, Pomeroy. 

Ruth. Matthew ! 

Northmore. 'Tis all I'll answer. I don't want his 
friendship. Let him keep away. [To Ives.] That's 
all I ask of you. 



88 THE MOTHER act iv 

Ives. Can you remember the past and say that ? 

NoRTHMORE. It IS because I remember the past 
too well. Couldn't your mother's ghost save you 
from ? 

Ives. [Angri/.] Keep her off your lips — and me 
too ! For her sake I've done what I did. For her 
sake I've said no word against your brutal silence. 
And let this woman witness it. And now be damned 
to you for a hard-hearted, frozen wretch I I'd sooner 
home with the foxes than with you. 

[Exit Ives into hai\ 

Ruth. How could you serve him so ? 

NoRTHMORE. I hate a hypocrite. 

Ruth. He's not that, and never was. 

NoRTHMORE. A hypocrite, and a liar, and bad — bad 
all through. There's mighty matters afore you now. 
And ask no mercy for that man, for 111 show none — 
unless — good money gone — precious beasts destroyed 
devilish work 

Ruth. Who mourns it more than him I 'Twas 
only thanks to him that worse didn't happen. He 
fought the fire for you ; he suffered for you ; and 
you couldn't even thank him, 

Xorthmore. [ Wildly.] The Lord's behind this thing. 
He's forced your hand, Ruth. The man who set my 
farm afire was Ives Pomeroy 

Ruth. [^Expresses amazement^ lohich dwindles doion 
into amusement and scor?!.] YouVe mad ! What will 
you say next, Matthew ? 



ACT TV THE MOTHER 89 

NoRTHMORE. Don't laugh, for God's sake. 'Tis no 
laughing matter. 

Ruth. I do laugh ; because you're fooling yourself. 
I'd sooner believe you'd done it than him. 

NoRTHMORE. Facts are facts. It's true. He did it. 

Ruth. IS^ever — not if an angel said he did. 

NoRTHMORE. Be just to others as well as generous 
to him. Listen, and if I say wrong, show me where. 
On the night of the fire Stone Park was empty, and 
he knew it would be, for Bonus told him so. 'Twas 
he, returning from Amicombe Hill, raised the alarm 
of fire. 

Ruth. What more could he do ? 

NoRTHMORE. He could light it first. Look on 
these things. 

[Brings a large pocket-book from his pocket and 
produces from it some half -burned papers, 

Ruth. [Taking papers^] A piece of a bill from 
Forster's and — and a bit of a letter I wrote Ives 
when he went away after the funeral. 

NoRTHMORE. You didn't think he'd use one of your 
letters to set my farm alight ! 

Ruth. What more ? 

NoRTHMORE. D'you Want more ? 

Ruth. Who gave you these ? 

NoRTHMORE. I found them myself. It's proof 
positive. [lie takes a fancy match-box from his pocket.^ 
Whose is this ? 

Ruth. My gift to him on his last birthday. I 
know he uses it. 



90 THE MOTHER act iv 

KoRTHMORE. Yes — he uses it. [Pause.] Be just to 
me. You thought I was babbling just now ; but I 
wasn^t. This means — what ? There are only three 
people in the world know that Pomeroy's a wicked 
scoundrel, and not one more need ever know it. 
Ruth, I want you, and I swear to God I believe it 
will be your eternal salvation to come to me. You 
can save two men before to-morrow. He said that I 
bullied you sometimes. Never till now ; but now — 
call it what you like. I'm not proud no more. 
Starving men aren't proud. You must marry me, 
Ruth ; and if I didn't know that you'll live to bless 
the day when you do, I'd not set this before you. 
Cruel to be kind. If he's to go free — say so. If he's 
to have another chance, 'tis only you can give it him. 

[She stares and exhibits acute emotion. The 
paper and box fall to the grounds North- 
more picks them up, 

NoRTHMORE. Don't think I've come to this easily. 
I've spent endless night watches on my knees afore 
my God about it. You love the man- — for his mother's 
sake. Well, these things are all that stand between 
him and ruin. [Gives papers and match-box to her,] 
There — take 'em. Give him another chance to make 
good his mother's prayers ; be true to him and you'll 
be true to me, Ruth. I know 'tis your love for 
him will make you take me, and that's wormwood ; 
but I'll suffer even that, because I'm strong, and 
patient, and look forward to the time when you'll 



ACT IV THE MOTHER 91 

love me better than ever you loved him. I'll make 
you. 

Ruth. Can you do this ? 

NoRTHMORE. I must. 'Tis as clear to me as if my 
Maker had spoke it. 

Ruth, Think before you call a woman to such a 
thing. 

NoRTHMORE. Haveu't I thought? Haven't I 
fought ? Look at my face, Ruth. 

Ruth. He never did it. I know him better than 
you do. It is impossible that man could have done it. 
Northmore. Nothing's impossible if it has hap- 
pened. " You know him " ! Do the song-bird know 
the snake ? Little — -little you know him ! 

[Ruth is greatly moved. For a few moments 
she sits down. He loalks restlessly about, 
goes to the window and looks out. She 
becomes conscious of the things in her 
hands and idly turns them over. She 
stares at them, plays with the match-box, 
opens it, strikes a match and lets it burn 
out. 
Ruth. He never did it ! 

Northmore. Tis proof positive, I tell you. Ho 
did it as sure's God's in heaven. 

[Ruth [lights another match and aftnr con- 
sidering sets fire to the papers. North- 
more turns round and sees lohat she is 
doing. He exhibits great joy and hurries 
forward. 



92 THE MOTHER act iv 

KoRTHMOEZ . R u 1 1: ! AI V " ailing Ruth ! you mean it ? 
Ruth. [JTr i away. Then she takes 

nuUeh-box afidjtirtgs e.^ I mean it. 

[North MORE his arms and uUers 

cry^ half sob, half 
s incoherent. 



'il^. 



NoRTHMOEZ. Thank God! TLaiik God! 'Salva- 
tion — salvation I Y: tIt :: to save lives. 
\Kneds doicn and kissis . _. B;^ k*^ God I 
must kneel to — ^not to you — : :: We'U 
save that poor boy between us ; we ii _ his 
mothers work ; we'll — we'll — Life ! Life : 
ashes . Good-bj^e — God bless you — G . : \ i: c — : 
you go for ever. It trails after you, like the scent of 
the fern. Let me get away into the i' h - to shout 
it out in lonely places. Let the who-r . . hear it ! 
My darling wife, my own darling wife ! 

[Exit NoRTHMORK. RuTH sits down and hides 
her face in her hands. 

Enter Ltzztk. 

Lizzie. Closing time. TThy ! What's the matter, 
Ruth ? 

ErxH. [^Starting up.'\ Great news — grand news for 
me. 1 11 tell you to-morrow. 

Lizzie. It's made you shake and go as white as 
paper ! You look as though — where's Ives ? 

\Goes to door into har and opens it. A babel 
of voices from bar. 



ACT IV THE MOTHER 98 

Cawker. [Singing off,] 

" Oh, when I first see Minnie Bell 
My heart began to throb, boys, 
But she told me to go to " 

Ives. [Off.] Shut up, Moleskin, and clear out — 'tis 
closing time. 

Lizzie. [Returns to Ruth.] I'm sure there's some- 
thing troubling you. 

[Ruth shakes her head. Laughter and loud 
voices from the bar. 

Ives. [Off.[ Give Moleskin an arm down the hill, 
George Bonus ; he's bosky-eyed. 

Cawker. [Off.] Here's George be turned into twins. 
They can each take an arm. ^' Oh, when I first see 
Minnie Bell " 

Ives. [Off.] Good night, good night, all ! 

Ruth. I can't find the little Bible, Lizzie. 

Lizzie. How we shall miss you, Ruth. But — but 

— I hope 

Enter Ives. 

Ives. That new potman's no good. You be off to 
bed, Lizzie. I want to talk to Ruth. 

Lizzie. Good night, dear Ives. [Kisses Ives.] 
Good night, dear Ruth. [Kisses Ruth. 

[Kxit Lizzie upstairs. 
Ives. At last. Sit you here now. 

[Ruth, who is in a sort of dreamy obeys him, 
and finds the book that she has been seeking, 
RuTii. Wiiy, here it is ! 



94 THE MOTHER act iv 

Ives. Ruth, I meant to say this a month ago — on 
the day you decided to be off; but I hadn't the cheek. 
What's wrong ? You be wisht to-night. Is it because 
you're sorry to go ? 

Ruth. Xo, no — I'm full of great news — wonderful 
news. 

Ives. So be I. I've been near telling it for half a 
dozen weeks, but feared to. So sweet and comely as 
you are, and me such a useless, cranky dog — that I 
didn't dare. But I loved you long before mother 
died, Euth. And more and more ever since — more 
and more. Be it too late ? D'you know too much 
about all the wicked things I've doae ? Can you 
forgive 'em ? [Goes to her.] Maybe not. But I'll try 
terrible hard to rise to be good enough for you, if 
you'll but 

Ruth. I've promised to marry Matthew Northmore, 
Ives. 

Ives. Xorthmore ! Good God Almighty ! You 
can't abide the man ! 

Ruth. He's faithful and strong and patient. He's 
won me, and marry him I shall. 

Ives. Why ? I've a right to know that. It's 
whispered of late he's going weak in his head. Has 
he turned you as mad as himself ? 

Ruth. 'Tis vain speaking against him. He's not 
mad. I've promised willingly. 

Ives, You're a dishonest woman, then. Yes, Ruth. 
You've kept him on and off, and broke his heart, 
and drove him to drink, and now— 'tis all wrong — 



ACT IV THE MOTHER 95 

wickedly wrong, and you shan't do it. You shan't 
wed that broken man, I swear it. I'll swing for 
him sooner. 

Ruth. Ives — Ives ! 

Ives. [Angry.] Never shall you take him ! Do you 
think I'm mad too ? D'you think I can't see there's 
more in this than you'll tell me ? I'll have the truth 
from you, or else I'll strangle it out of him. God's 
my judge I'll end his days afore he shall touch you. 

Ruth. Don't, don't talk that way ! I'm doing 
what I know to be right and wise. 

[Eises and picks up the Bible, 

Ives. To hell with the whole pack of you ! To 
hell with your gentle looks ! To hell with what you 
made my poor mother hope, and what she whispered 
to me one hour before she died. 'Twas thus with 
t'other one ; and now 'tis you 

Ruth. [Going to him,] This isn't, Ives ; this 
isn't 

Ives. [Snatching Bible away from her,'\ Don't you 
touch that book while you lie to me and say you're 
doing right to wed that man ! The blood in your 
veins is crying out that 'tis a lie ! 'Tis natural you 
should hate me — but, my God, you shan't love him ! 
Blast the Book and — and — [He flings it violently to 
the grownd,] Let it rot there, if it can't keep you from 
lying ! 

Ruth. Your mother's Bible, Ives. 

Ives. [More gently.] Ruth, Ruth, don't say you love 
him, for I know 'tis false. And if you don't love 



96 THE MOTHER act iv 

him. how can the honest likes of you wed him? 
Think better of it. Forget me — I'm worthless and I 
know it. But don't go to him. 'Tis ruination if you 
do that. 

[Ruth picks up the hook^ which has come out 
of its cover. She also 2^^cks up a pape^" 
that has fallen out of it, 

Ives. [More gentle/.] I must choke you off North- 
more — not for my sake but your own. I — I didn't 
mean to rage. I'm sorry. I forgot where I stand. 

Ruth. [She is looking at the paper that fell out of 
the Bible.] Have you seen this ? 

IvES. I be only set on your good now- — 'tis only for 
you, Ruth. 

Ruth. You must read this paper. Twill mean a 
lot to you. 

IvES. My mother loved you, Ruth, and 

Ruth. I know that. 

Ives. If she was here 

Ruth. She is here I List to her, Ives ! Forget 
me and think 'tis her speaking to you — words all 
copied from the Book. 

Ives. She would never have let you do this. 

[He walks about in deep distress. 

Ruth. Listen — listen what your mother set down. 
'Twas not for nought it came to us to-night, dear 
Ives. [She goes to lamp.] The first page is old — as old 
as you are. [JReads slowly.] '^ God hath judged me 
and hath heard my voice andj hath given me a son^ 
You were a baby when she set that down. 



ACT IV THE MOTHER 97 

Ives. Better for her if I'd never come into the 
world. [Pause. 

Ruth. [Reads.] " God be gracious unto thee^ my 
son'^ And then, ** His mother made him a little coatT 
Ives. [Slightly interested^ stops in his tramp vp and 
down.] Aye, she did. I mind it yet — a little flea- 
coloured coat when I was a nipper. 

Ruth. [Beads.] " What shall I do for my son 2 " 
** Leave thy fatherless children ; I will preserve them 
alive ; and let thy widows trust in me." 
Ives. When my father w^ent. 

[Walks up and down again. 

Ruth. [Reads.] ^^ Chasten thy son while there is hope." 

Ives. Little hope she had o' me. 

Ruth. [Reads]. ^' And the child grew and icaxed 

strong in spirit and was in the deserts" . . . "/See, the 

smell of my son is the smell of a f eld which the Lord 

hath Messed." 

Ives. [Calmer. He sits down.] Twas when I took 
to farming after father died. She joyed in it. 

Ruth. [Reads.] ** Lt is good for a man to hear the 
yoke in his youth." 

Ives. Ah, I hadn't begun to break her heart then. 

Ruth. [Reads^ ^* blaster, I have Ir ought unto Thee 

my son. Master^ L beseech Thee look upon my son." 

[Pause. 
Ives. Go on. 

Ruth. [Reads.] " Lord have mercy itpon my son." 
Ives. I laid in clink that night. 
Ruth. [Reads.] ^^ As one whom his mothei' com^ 

a 



98 THE MOTHER act iv 

forteth, so will I comfcrt you':' 'Twas when you came 
back to her. 

Iyes. Aye — she comforted me — and more than 
that. 

Ruth. \Eeads?^ " turn unto me and have mercy 
upon me ; give Thy strength unto thy servant and save 
the son of Thine handmaid'' 

Ives. Well she might pray for help. 

Ruth. And was answered. \^Reads.'\ ^^ Far this my 
son ivas dead and is alive again; he was lost and is 
foundy 

Iyes. She spoke too soon. 

Ruth. She knew you better than you know your- 
self. There's but one text more. You might think 
she felt 'twas going to be the last. \^Reads.'\ " He that 
over Cometh shall inhe7'it all things ; and I will he his 
God^ and he shall he My son.'' 'Twas her good-bye to 
you. She trusted you to her God. 

Iyes. Give me the paper. 

Ruth. [Tenderly.] Stepping-stones in your life, 
Ives. 

Iyes. [Takiyig paper and speaking very slowly and 
solemnly.'] That woman's son have got no choice. 

Ruth. 'Tis like finding precious things that the 
dead have hoarded away for you. 

Iyes. She ban't dead ! She's here along with me 
now. [Pause.] Do you want to marry that man ? 

Ruth. Yes, I do. 

I\t:s. Before your God ? 

Ruth. Before my God. 



ACT IV THE MOTHER 99 

Ives. Then I'll work him no harm. He must be a 
good chap if you can say that. He's steadfast and 
he's brave and he's better than me. He knowed your 
glory and value from the first — long before I did 
He deserves you better than I do. 'Tis justice. 
You'll make him wise again; and he'll make you 
happy. 

Ruth. Good night. Try to 

[Approaches him 

Ives. Good night. Go — go — go ! 

[Ruth takes the little Bible and ascends the 
stairs. Ives moves here and there rest' 
lessly. Then he looks at the paper in his 
hand. There is a knock and Northmore 
enters. He is haggard and hatless. 

Northmore. You ban't to sleep ? [Ives shakes his 
head and puts the paper into his pocket.] My mind 
was running on so — I'd planned a piano for her and 
all — and proper painted pictures. I was going to fill 
Stone Park with beautiful things for her. 

Ives. So you will — 'tis right you should. You've 
won her, and them that can't win must learn to 
lose. 

Northmore. That's true. I've got a* loaded pistol 
in my pocket. 

Ives. Why for ? To blow my brains out ? Sit 
down, man, and calm yourself. What more d'you 
want ? She's took you for love. 

Northmore. For love — yes, but not for love of me, 



100 THE MOTHER act iv 

I've spun a great web and caught myself in it. No 
man can face this and live. [Shows pistol, 

Ives. You're sick, you're dreaming, Matthew. 
Here, calm down and tell me what's wrong. I'll take 
that. [Takes pistol and puts it on the mantelshelf. 

XoRTHMORE. Your mother told me that you and 
Euth were dew-drops on a leaf, and would run 
together when the morning wind awoke. Emmanuel 
Codd fired my farm — not you . 

Iyes. Me! Hell, Matthew — I ^7hat are you 
saying ? 

XoRTHMOEE. He confesscd it to a woman after he'd 
done it, and she's let it out now he's disappeared. 
This very night she told Nicholas Toop, and he made 
her tell me. They stopped me as I was going home — 
to praise God for His goodness. That red woman, 
Jill. ^Tiere's Ruth ? 

Ives. To bed. 

XoRTHMORE. Call her down. She loves you as 
never a gu.4 loved a man afore. 

Ives. [Stares at Xorthmore. Then goes to the 
stxircase and aszends a few steps.] Rath, I want 'e. 

N0RTB3I0RE. Be there mortal man that can live 
beside that woman and not want her ? 

[Ruth appears and descends the stairs. 

XoRTHMOEE. [To RuTH.] Tis all over. He'll tell 
you. The dream's ended. You're free. 
Ruth. Thank God you know the truth. 
NoRTHMORE. I believed my eyes ; you believed 



ACT IV THE MOTHER 101 

your heart. And you were right. Now I'll be 
gone. 

Ives. You're honest and just — all men know that. 
Wilt drink ? You're shook up seemingly. [North- 
more shakes his head.] Come on then . I be going to 
see you home to-night. [Uxit Northmore. 

Ives. [To Ruth.] Bide up for me. 

[Re puts on his hat and follows Northmore. 
Ruth stands at the open door and looks 
after them. 



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